Stolen Hearts
by Knight Writer Thundercat
Summary: In the capital of the restored Thunderian homeworld, a monster stalks young women in the streets and leaves their horribly ruined corpses in his wake. A former member of the Royal Guard and former homicide detective on the world his wounded convoy had found its way to, must stop this New Thundera's first serial killer along side his former partner, Kalsa Morgan.
1. Reunion

Story Notes:

This fic doesn't use any material from the comics. This is a New Thundera that I imagined would form after the end of the canon. Hope you like it!

Thundercats used without permission

All original characters copyright Knight Writer

Any similarities to actual people, events, or fandom avatars is entirely coincidental

Thundercats: Stolen Hearts

My name is Kayzin. I am not a writer by any means, and I do not mean to over-dramatize the events told within this journal. I do not seek to cash in on my involvment in the terrible events described within, nor do I wish any fame. I am writing this as a sort of mental therapy, to remove the poison of these memories.

Memories...

I remember, when I was a kitten on the old Thundera, my father sitting me on his knee and giving me these words of wisdom.

"Never raise more devils than you can lay down."

I believed those words. I lived by them as best I could. My dad, however, hadn't told me about devils that got back up.

I remember the day it all began. I awoke at first light filled with anxious joy. Today was the day. I had showered first thing, having gotten off late from work the night before and being too tired to care about sleeping in my own sweat. I knew I would have to wash the sheets, but that could wait.

After a most relaxing cleansing, I studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Skin a pale orange, with black stripes at consistent intervals across my shoulders and down my arms. My body was rather lithe, lacking most of the bulk of Tygers. The mane of shoulder-length blonde hair peppered with black spots gave the most telling evidence of my Cheetah mother. In the genetic battle which decided my appearance, my mom and dad had fought a draw.

A good shave later, I judged myself presentable and left to find an outfit. New Thundera kept to the old ways for the most part, except where clothing was concerned. The scattering of our race had taught us one universal truth. People can get rather distracted when dealing with those who are naked and supremely unconcerned about it. Aside from that, New Thundera enjoyed a nice tourist trade, and nudity was definitely not for the kiddies.

Tourism. Sorry to go off-topic, but I don't know when this will be read, so I have to. Our world's architecture and art had seen exposure while our people were separated. When the homeworld was restored, countless beings from across the galaxy wanted to see it.

Hey, we needed the money.

New Thundera wasn't a resort planet, but everyone was welcome to see it. Trade and technology also brought enormous boons to our economy. Our race had never rode higher.

Anyway...

I had opened my small closet in search of some decent clothes. Most Thunderians wore tight, revealing outfits and I had my share of those. This day, however, demanded something a little different.

The synthetic fabrics almost tingled against my skin as I slid them on. Boxers first, natch. Then the charcoal slacks with a flat black belt. A white button down adorned my torso, followed with a dark silk necktie. I glanced up at the box which held other personal effects. No, I decided, I wouldn't need all that. My attire would draw enough stares. After one last glance in the mirror, I settled down to decide what in my modest fridge I'd have for breakfast.

Coffee. There's a drink few on New Thundera could get right. Some shops did make an honest effort, I will say that, but most just made black sludge that was only fit as an industrial solvent. Mine, and I am not boasting, was pretty good, at least by my standards. Leftover meatfruit from the northern Berbil colonies whipped into a two-egg ommelette and toasted bread made for a decent breakfast. The newspaper - I eschewed the televised reports - told of climbing revenues and progress being made in synthetic Thundrillium research. The Nobility realized that our main source of energy could not be infinite, and was already researching alternatives before the supply ran low. Credit for that went to Sir Panthro, head of technologies and engineering. Of course, such funding had to be approved by Lord Lion-O, who had done so without a second thought. Very forward thinking of him.

I checked the time. I had finished the paper, and had disposed of the tabloid rag that some unkind soul had subscribed me to for a little cash, just before noon. Time to get off my lazy ass and hit the markets.

I have to go off-topic again here, but I think it's necessary to describe where I lived. The topography will be important.

I called the south side of New Thundera City home. The NTC, as most residents called it, was the capital city of New Thundera. At its heart resided a radically redisigned Cat's Lair, around which were the Royal Gardens. From the Central District, the city was divided into four quadrants.

There was the political North District, where lawmakers would hammer out new legislations to be presented to Lord Lion-O, or to the other Nobles who catered to those not high enough on the political food chain to gain an audience with the king.

To the east was the heavy industrial Easter District, from which the ores mined from the planet's surface were processed into the raw materials needed for our technologies and basic comforts.

The Western District was the main tourist trap. Most of the specialty shops (and by specialty, I mean expensive) were located there. New Thunderian fashions were always on sale, museums of art and architecture were open to one and all, and the highest-priced restaurants anywhere on the planet called that place home.

The South District contained all the heavy industry and R&D labs. The south district also held the spaceports for visitors and destinations for the air and sea vehicles from other parts of the planet.

I worked as a Cargoman at Thundera Spaceport. Basically, I made sure that freight from Starship A made its way to Destination B without incident. It was a modestly-paying job, and fairly anonymous. I liked the last part.

I'd had enough time in the limelight.

Back to it!

I walked the narrow streets of the southern district in a kind of daze, letting my feet find their way to the local package store. I needed something special, and I knew that place would have it. Vintage Thunderian Firewine. It was the Anniversary, so only the best.

Anniversary. No, it wasn't between me and some lucky woman. In fact, I'd never married then. I know, you're screaming, "MALE FEAR OF COMMITMENT!", but that's not the case. I didn't want these memories of mine, and the nightmares they caused, spoiling the love between me and a woman.

I said I would not over dramatize these events, and I will not. What I have written is true. I have many horrible memories. I have seen many things worse than the history texts of the Nobility's time on Third Earth. I have seen evil that would make the storied Mumm-Ra cringe.

But now is not the time to go into that. I will, much as I hate to, but not now!

I am as Thunderian as you (assuming, of course, that you are Thunderian). I am also as male as any being in the galaxy which bears a penis. Let's face it, I love the ladies. From time to time, I've been known to hit the local drinking hole (In the south district, the place was named Shooters) in search of companionship. No, let's be honest. I'd strap on the beer goggles and see where the night would take me. More often than not, the night would lead me back to my apartment drunk and alone.

On a few occaisions, I would wake up with a second heartbeat pounding in my head and an unfamiliar weight on my arm. I would open my eyes and see a rather lovely female asleep on that appendage, thankful to have avoided a coyote morning yet again. Sometimes, these trysts would evolve into second or third dates. But, never farther than that.

I found myself before the package store and entered gladly. Along the right-hand wall of the small structure I found a bottle of three-year-old firewine, which I brought to the counter. Upon buying it, I set off to a local butcher for meatfruit and Thunderian lobster. This night had to be special.

It was dark when the knock came at the door. I didn't bother to ask who it was. I went across my modest apartment and, on opening the door, fond feelings went through me.

His hair was still a waxen blonde, stretching down to his shoulders. He had high cheekbones and large green eyes, his ears sticking out to tapered points paralell to his head. The blue jumpsuit showed all his angular features with the utmost flattery.

"What's up, Thunder Cop?" he asked with a rogue's grin.

"Same old shit," I had replied. This man was the only one in the galaxy who could call me Thunder Cop without a racist tone.

He was also the only one who could call me that at all without picking his teeth out of his shit.

"No news is good news, eh?" Kalsa Morgan said.

"Always," I replied as we began our ritual. Palm slap, backhand slap, fist pound, palm grasp, and quick hug, It was our signature from the old days.

Before I go any further, I should give a little background. Twenty years ago, just before the destruction of Old Thundera, I was a young stripling who enjoyed a position as a Royal Guard of the Court. Barely twenty, I was a buck sergeant when the order to hit the stars came.

By pure luck of the draw, I had been given a spot on the first convoy of ships destined for a new home somewhere out there. My convoy never made it. I now know that none of our ships made it to that promised land, or, if they did we have still had no word.

A freak meteor shower had hammered our small convoy just before we could enter hyperspace. It had left our engines damaged beyond hope of repair, our sheilds barely usable, and our weapons completely out of commission. For ten weeks we plodded through space, each day seeing hope dwindle and tensions rise.

Finally, we found the planet Thardus III.

Home to dozens of species from throughout the galaxy, Thardus III boasted an industrial society to rival Thundera. Our ships hadn't even been allowed to land, on account of them being too badly damaged to suvive atmospheric re-entry. On emergency transports, our convoy had been conveyed to the surface.

I won't go into detail regarding the aspects of the following weeks, partly because they're irrelevant to the events I'm writing about and largely because I don't recall the details. I was in pretty bad shape when we made planetfall. Long story short, we took the only option available to us. Six thousand homeless Thunderians found themselves integrated into the society of Thardus III.

All was not wine and roses. I will admit to that. By and large, we were accepted, but there were sects of society who rejected us outright.

Don't you just love blind racism?

Anyway, once recuperated, I found myself with a slight dilemma. Thardus III had a parliamentary government and, naturally, this meant no royalty in need of guarding. I needed work, my government issued assistance was drying up, and I finally found something I could sink my teeth into. I joined the capital's police force. I was the first, and only, Thunderian ever to join the thin blue line.

I started out as a beat cop, walking my assigned area of the city and reporting to various civil disturbances. Crime, it had seemed to me at the time, was far higher than on Thundera. I know better now, but then I missed the absolute authority of the monarchy.

I rose through the ranks despite some misgivings about my heritage. I had to prove myself every day, and mostly I won the respect of my comrades. Finally, after three years, someone in the top brass had seen something in me that deserved serious recognition. I found myself promoted to Lieutenant, and given the title of Detective.

And that's where Kalsa Morgan comes into it. Originally from the planet Rinza, he had been assigned as my partner. Five years my elder on the force, he had been completely unlike any other officer I had met. As a Rinzian, he had also felt the sting of racial discrimination. Over the years we served together, we closed countless cases and gained the respect of the brass and the beat cops below us.

We worked in Homicide.

There is more to our shared past, but I won't go into it now. It's not time yet. I will, however, say that in our years working together, we developed a tight bond. We came to know each other on an elemental level. It was deeper than friendship. Closer than brotherhood. When you can trust your life and sanity to the man next to you day in and day out while investigating such horrible crimes, and that trust is reciprocated, you'll know what I mean.

"Tell me you got it," I'd said when he entered my apartment. From within his small suitcase he produced two bottles of amber liquor.

"Tarkezian single malt," he said with a wicked grin, "twenty-one years old and looking to get drunk."

"Well, let's not keep them waiting," I said around a laugh as I shut the door. The scent of lobster and meatfruit stew hung lazily in the air as we made for the kitchen. I'm not an accomplished chef, and my best efforts wouldn't fetch crap in the glitzy restaurant district, but for a batchelor I do okay for dinner.

As we ate, accompanied by the Firewine I had procured earlier, our conversation touched on the usual topics.

"So, how's yer hammer hangin'?" Kalsa asked me with a wink.

"Short, shrivelled, and slightly to the right," I replied. Kalsa roared with laughter, having taken quite a few shots of Thunderian rotgut. "How 'bout you?" I was a sheet or two into the wind, myself. "Who's the playboy detective swingin' on his arm these days?"

"Ah, no one special." By which he meant no one at all. It was as close to his divorce as we ever came to discussing. "Nice place, by the way."

"It ain't much, but it's home. How long ya here?"

"'Bout a week. Thinkin' of callin' this place home."

"No shit?" I asked, stunned.

"Yep. Just cashed in my retirement from the force. I ain't bearin' the gold shield anymore."

"Get the fuck out?!" I couldn't believe it.

"Yeah," Kalsa said before taking another shot. "WHOO! Too much more of this, an' I won't make it!"

"You loved the grind!" I exclaimed, still shocked.

"Not any more," he said gravely. "Not after... you know."

"Yeah." I knew. By all that's holy, I knew.

The hours ticked by as we talked and drank. The Firewine was gone, and we were sticking to coffee for the time being. One bottle of the good stuff sat between us on a small round table, accompanied by two tumblers. We each sat in the overstuffed recliners I had managed to find for cheap when I first rented the apartment.

We spoke of old times, old cases, old loves. Not of the real reason we were sitting in my foyer. When it seemed the memories were drying up, we both looked at the clock on the western wall.

Two-fifty AM.

No further words were needed. In silence, I uncorked the bottle. Tarkezian single malt. Perfect. I filled both tumblers with the golden nectar and we each took one. This may be a touch of over dramatization, but I could swear that I could hear each tick of the old clock as the minutes counted down. Still, no words passed between us. The silence was pregnant with anticipation. Ten minutes had never before, or since, seemed so damned long.

Three AM.

"We got the son of a bitch," I said, raising my tumbler in a toast.

"We sure as fuck did," Kalsa replied, clinking his tumbler against mine. The booze slid down my throat like liquid velvet, smooth with a clean finish. If you ever lay hands on a bottle of Tarkezian single malt, especially a batch that old, make sure you savor it.

At that moment, I could have sworn I felt an old, weeping sore in my mind finally scab over. It had, at last, seemed real.

The son of a bitch in question was the worst case of our career. Before I give you a backstory on him, I should explain a few other things. I have already told you that Kalsa and myself were homicide detectives on Thardus III.

The first thing I should point out is that homicide, or more bluntly, murder was a crime that was nearly unheard of on Old Thundera. Despite countless attemtps at conquest by the Mutants of Plun-Darr and the casualties inflicted by their raids, one Thunderian murdering another was always big news. It was one of those things that just Was Not Done.

On Thardus III, it was done. Often. And messily.

The history texts describe Mumm-Ra as the worst evil any Thunderian had ever faced. I know better. The worst, the purest, evil lived not in a pyramid.

It lived within the hearts of all beings.

Again, this is not over dramatization. This is reality.

The two of us, over the ten year course of our career, had handled more murder cases than either of us could count. The typical murder was often the one most easily solved. For the most part, murder is a crime of passion, a jilted lover taking vengeance in the heat of the moment. Other times, it was a combination of too much stress, too much drink, and repressed bitterness that turned an ordinary person into a raving killer for a brief span of moments. One of the most disheartening cases I can recall involved a man who had killed his brother over a book.

Disgusting, I know. Ridiculous and disgusting.

These cases usually solved themselves, despite what popular entertainment depicts. The killer, mortified and penitent, more often than not confessed immediately and copped to whatever lesser charge the system could dole out. If I had a credit for every time I'd heard "I didn't mean to!" or "Why didn't he just back off a little?" I could open my own charter fishing business on the coast of the west district.

Some true idiots would actually try to hide their guilt, thinking that watching every episode of a forensic drama (and trust me, forensics is far from dramatic) enabled them to fool law enforcement. Among these were career criminals, who killed a victim they had tried to rob, or knocked off a rival sumbag. However, crooks liked to boast, and word would get to us one way or another. A criminal brags about a person he killed to another, the other one gets bagged for something and then coughs up the first asswipe in exchange for a lesser charge.

Can you see why our closure rate was so high?

But, there were others.

A few (more than the one about which I am writing) killed not out of passion or criminal gain. Some murdered others for the sheer thrill of it. They were clever, leaving no evidence at the scene of the crime. They stalked their victims like game animals, murdered them in the most brutal and ritualistic ways, and left them for us to find.

These killers enjoyed their sick game of (no pun intended) cat and mouse. They hid in plain sight, ordinary men (I never knew a woman to behave this way) leading ordinary lives on the surface. They got off on their notoriety, often provided by the media free of charge, and lived not only for the chase and the kill, but on the fear of those around them.

Our last case together, and my last one period, had been known as the Thief of Hearts. We had other names for that motherfucker, and none of them were anywhere near as romantic. The news media of Thardus III, in their lust for ratings (and to hell with the fact that they were impeding our investigation by helping spread terror), gave him that monicker for reasons that were grossly obvious. Loathe as I am to delve into the sordid details, I will write them here. Better on the screen than in my head.

The Thief of Hearts stalked only young, lovely women. All such killers I know of have done the same. Upon abducting a poor soul, he would spend days raping and torturing them to his black hearts' content. He would then leave them in trash dumps in different parts of the Thardian capital.

With a gaping hole where the heart should have been.

The forensic scientists would always remark about the neatness and precision with which that organ was removed. Also, they would report much to our displeasure, that the operations were performed pre-mortem.

Our horror, and rage, were immesurable.

And, he would taunt us. On the backs of his victims he would carve cryptic warnings about future murders.

It took us a year, and a total of twenty victims, but we got him.

The chase for this assbag had taken so much. So many families destroyed, including Kalsa's. Our obsession for catching the Thief of Hearts had eroded his marriage. His wife had long since left him when our chase was done.

The top brass had offered me my retirement pension several decades early. I gladly took it. Over the course of the trial, I had reached my limit. I could no longer deal with such horrors.

But, I stayed on Thardus III. Understand that, by the time of the trial, our home planet had been restored. Out of the now seven thousand Thunderians on Thardus III, I was the only one who stayed. Even the dead had been taken to be interred in our home soil. All but two of them had been the Thief's victims. I'll touch on that later.

I had to see it through to the end. I had to see him die.

Which is why Kalsa Morgan was in my modest apartment in the south district at three AM that fateful morning. Five years to the day, the very minute, we had watched him be strapped into the chair and subjected to total disintegration. I swear I could smell his nuts cooking.

Now, if you are Thunderian, I am sure you are appalled at my words. A Thunderian wanting to see someone executed? I am also sure that you are wondering if I had forgotten the Code of Thundera.

Truth.

Justice.

Honor.

Loyalty.

I know. I love and honor the Code as much as you do. But, you weren't there. You never had to look into the eyes of parents or husbands as you broke the news that their daughter, or wife would never come home again. You never saw the devastation as their hearts were shattered as cruelly as a victim's had been removed.

You never saw the sons and daughters left behind, not even old enough to comprehend that Mommy was gone forever.

In that one span of my life, I decided "Fuck the Code." I wanted this monster dead.


	2. The Thief Rises

Thundercats used without permission

All original characters copyright Knight Writer

Any similarity with any event or anyone, living or dead, or any avatar character is unintentional and coincidental.

Stolen Hearts

Day One

Thunderians usually awake at first light. It's something ingrained in our nature, as though we have to be moving once the day breaks. If one has to work an overnight shift or, like me, one had drank enough alcohol to lay a platoon of Royal Guards low then first light was a bit hard to manage.

I awoke some time around noon, and instantly regretted it. The combination of the late hour, the firewine, and the Tarkezian, had left me far worse for wear. I had risen from the couch and barely managed not to step on Kalsa's back in the process. My former partner had sprawled out on the floor next to my couch, snoring softly to himself. We'd both met Mr. Hangover, the post-drinking demon, and since I was the first up, I felt I should make the coffee.

I somehow staggered into the kitchen and hit the button on the machine. While the brew was percolating I drained a glass of water from the tap. Then another. And another. I kept draining water, unsurprised by the lack of a need to urinate. If I was lucky, that would come in a few hours. After my fifth glass (I was once again buzzing pleasantly), I considered breakfast. I still had half a pot of the meatfruit and lobster stew...

My stomach informed me, by way of an ominous churning, that solid nutrition would not be tolerated just yet.

So much the better, I thought in my again-inebriated state. The buzz faded as the aroma of coffee teased my nostrils. The pot couldn't finish brewing fast enough.

"Ooohhhh, fuck..." I heard Kalsa's groan from the foyer, and felt a surge of pity. He had polished off the last of the first bottle of Tarkezian single malt, and had to be feeling the pain worse than I was. I walked back into the foyer to see him sitting up, both hands on his head as if to keep it from bursting.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," I taunted.

"...uuuughhhhh..."

"And how are we feeling?" I couldn't help twisting the knife a little.

"We," he said, "are feeling like a Thardian bloodhound used our mouth for a toilet."

"Know the feeling," I replied with empathy. "Got some coffee on."

"Cup. Quickly, and I might just live."

"Ready in a minute," I said. "Want some help?"

"Oh," Kalsa said weakly, "just all I can get."

I helped him up from my floor, and it took all I had not to laugh. After all the times I had drank him under numerous tables on Thardus III, he still went overboard trying to win our alcohol-soaked duels.

"Owwwww... We had a good time, right?"

"The best." I still remembered closing that horrible chapter of my life.

Damn, but I had been an idiot.

Between the two of us, we had drained the first pot of coffee. Then a second, just for good measure. We were both wired and awake, but still uncoordinated as we went about our morning toilette.

I had showered first, and revelled in the feel of the hot water soaking my skin. My hangover was beginning to fade at last, and my stomach was proudly announcing that solid food would now be admitted free of charge.

After towelling off, Kalsa entered the shower stall while I went about other business.

I took the rest of the stew out of the fridge and placed it in the heating unit mounted above the stove. Six minutes would do it. In the meantime, I gathered the mail that had been shoved onto my floor through the door slot earler that morning.

I sat in one of the recliners as I sorted the delivery. No junk mail, for which I was thankful. A few bills, of course. No day was complete without them. My newspaper was among the last, along with that damn tabloid rag. I swear, how anyone can start their day with rumors of Bengali and Pumyra I'll never know. At least that rag in particular was reluctant about speculating about Queen Cheetara's marriage to Lord Lion-O. Some things, at least, were still sacred.

I don't rememeber hearing the shower cut off as I grabbed the remote and switched on the television. After twenty seconds, I wished I hadn't touched the damn thing.

"Ahh, that was great," Kalsa exclaimed as he entered the foyer, a towel all that was between him and the world. "So, what's on the idiot box today?"

"Just the news," I said as the Puma anchorwoman launched into the next story.

"In other news," she said in an appropriately somber tone, "There is still no word on the whereabouts of local Tygress Kara Simm." Her image filled the screen at that point, and I found myself staring into her orange eyes. She had a lovely face, white and brilliant orange, framed with a mane of dark hair. She was smiling at something I'd never know as the anchorwoman droned on. "Kara was reported missing to the Royal Guard just two days ago. Anyone with information regarding her current location is urged to contact Royal Guard officials without delay."

I switched off the television, an unnamed feeling of looming horror settling over me. I'm not psychic by any means - having not inherited that aspect of my mother's bloodline - but I still can't help but think even to this day that somehow, I knew that newscast was an omen.

"Y'know," Kalsa said as he sat in the opposite recliner, "I never knew a Thunderian with a last name."

"Well, when we were spread out, a lot of us married people from the worlds they settled on," I explained, inwardly grateful for the change of mood that came with his question. The horror and foreboding evaporated like morning mist as I looked at my closest friend. "Mostly, we took the custom of family names."

"Missing," Kalsa said darkly.

"Yeah." That dark feeling came back, teasing the edge of my brain. The detective instincts stirred of their own accord. Five years after I left the force, and they were still ingrained. I glanced over at Kalsa, noticing that his tapered ears had lost their greenish tint from earlier, and saw the same look on his face I knew had to be on mine.

"You can take a man out of the detective squad," I said with a shake of my head.

"But you can't take the detective out of the man," Kalsa finished with a grin. "Say, you up for something other than caffinated rocket fuel in your stomach yet?"

"Heated up the rest of the stew already," I said as we rose and made our way into the kitchen. "And my caffinated rocket fuel started more than a few of our mornings."

"I know," Kalsa replied as he rubbed his flat stomach, "I still have the ulcers." We both laughed as I removed the stew from the heating unit and hunted down two clean bowls.

I do not suffer from diahrrea of the keyboard. This is not a long-winded narrative that will extort every detail of the time Kalsa and I spent together. The memories of that first, and only, bright day will not be committed to this machine. Those are mine alone, and I will not expunge them.

Touring the West District's museums and shops has nothing to do with what happened. Nor does our discreet ogling of women clad in tight clothes that threatened to send the imagination into overdrive. Lastly, a rousing game of Hour of Power in South District's Shooters (complete with the two of us stumbling back to my apartment lacking female companionship) is irrelevant.

I have come to the part which I've dreaded ever since I resolved to commit these memories to data.

The first victim.

If you are reading this, then I warn you that what is depicted from here on will not be censored. If I am to rid myself of this nightmare, I must hold nothing back. If you are familiar with this incident (a euphemism if ever I saw one), I should warn you that this is far more graphic than the media had been allowed to show. If, somehow, these events are new to you, then I strongly suggest you consider reading on with care.

Remember. I warned you.

The hangover wasn't as intense that morning, even though I still managed to miss first light, as I slowly managed to rise from my bed. My mouth was merely dry rather than utterly parched, and my head wasn't pounding like a bass drum. Even my stomach managed to seem agreeable when I thought about breakfast. My liver, on the other hand, probably thought I was trying to kill it. Kalsa and I had decided responsibly, before our brains were long past responsible decision making, against using the hard stuff with Hour of Power. We even managed to stop after the first round.

But, we had still gotten hammered, which probably had a lot to do with us not getting laid.

I slid on a pair of loose-fitting pants and padded out of my bedroom. The light from the pre-noon sun filtered through the patio window and filled the small foyer with a cheerful glow. Kalsa stood mid-step, shirtless as I was and a mug of coffee in each hand. He had a knowing grin on his face.

"I was thinking I'd have to pour this down your throat to get you outta bed," he said as I accepted a steaming cup from him.

"Good thing you didn't." I replied before taking a sip. The hot brew left a trail of fire down my throat before hittiing my stomach like a bomb. "Yeah, that's the good stuff. Is breakfast too much to hope for?"

"Nope. Me learning how to cook was."

"How have you survived so long?" I teased as he sipped his own coffee.

"Take-out," he replied gravely. "It's a bachelor's best friend."

"Then why don't you have an ass the size of a Thundertank?"

"Elementary, my dear Kayzin," He said, paraphrasing one of his favorite ancient, obscure authors, "It is a matter of having a metabolism like a hyperdrive engine."

"Which all Rinzians are blessed with," I said as we entered the kitchen. I rooted around the fridge, groaning at the fact that I had forgotten to stock up on provisions.

As I hunted up something edible for that morning, I recalled the jokes our circle of friends on the force had made about Kalsa's cooking. We'd laugh for hours, Kalsa as well, about whether his cooking could be considered an environmental hazard or prosecuted as a hate crime against food. Even Kalsa's ex-wife would rib him about his ineptitude in the kitchen back when they were together.

Scrambled eggs, toast, and more of Kalsa's coffee was the order of the day, which we wolfed down with gusto. With a grocery list composing in the back of my head, we polished off breakfast and retired to my foyer for a session with the idiot box. After yesterday's grand adventure in the city primeval another trek outside seemed dauting at best. I couldn't put off a grocery run for too long but I intended to for as long as possible.

"Channell 128 News at Noon," a female voice said as the digital screen flared to life. We both watched as the same Puma from the previous day's broadcast appeared in all her coiffed glory. Rather than a stage set, she was standing in front of an alley I recognized as being near New Thundera Spaceport. The unnamed fear from the day before returned, eager to envelop me in its dark embrace.

"Tana Krile reporting live from the scene," she said in her alto voice. "It is with regret that Channell 128 news reports that Kara Simm, reported missing just three days ago, has been found dead."

"Oh, no," I heard Kalsa groan. We both knew where this was going. Or, so we thought.

"Kara Simm's body was discovered in a garbage receptacle early this morning by a local waste management worker. No leads as to the the one responsible for her untimely death are available at this time, but sources close to the growing investigation confirm that her heart had been removed prior to..."

I couldn't hear the rest. My coffee mug slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor. The world seemed to slant at a sickening angle as all the crime scenes, all the autopsies, all the terror of those days on Thardus III returned in a tidal wave of madness.

"Fuck me running," I heard Kalsa whisper. I turned to him, and his emerald eyes locked squarely upon my orange ones. An entire conversation passed silently between us in the space of seconds. I knew his mind every bit as well as he knew mine.

"It's impossible," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. "We got him. I know we got him!"

"Copycat. Has to be." Kalsa breathed. I took no offense at his first word. "It can't be exactly the same."

"Can't be," I agreed. Unbidden, the details of what the Thief of Hearts had done to his victims bubbled up to the front of my consciousness. I felt my modest breakfast threaten to violently leave my stomach. "We have to help."

"Yeah," Kalsa replied. "This isn't the same guy..."

"No chance in hell..."

"But if he's studied the Thief of Hearts' crimes, he's gonna follow the same pattern."

We rose from our seats simultaneously. This had to be done.

We knew what we had to do. The Royal Guard of New Thundera acted as a guard force only within the grounds of Cat's Lair. In the city at large, they acted much like any typical police force. That didn't change the fact that, copycat or not, they had never dealt with a serial murderer before.

As the taxi we had managed to hail sped through the streets of the South District, I tried to decide just what I would say if we somehow managed to get an audience with the commander of the Royal Guard, Sir Bengali. I knew, as did Kalsa, that if we did not act then more and more mutilated corpses would appear in city dumpsters. And, this killer would act fast. The original Thief of Hearts was slow and methodical.

At first.

As we had continued to chase him, he had become more and more bold. The downtime between bodies being discovered had shrank with each successive kill. We had even suspected, at one point, that the Thief had been kidnapping multiple women at once. It had been a stretch, keeping one prisoner was complicated enough, but we had been desperate.

This copycat, I knew from all the psychological work done on the original killer, would be just as patient. At first.

While Kalsa chatted up the driver, outwardly calm and relaxed, I stared out the window at the blur which was my city. My home. I saw the towering statue of Sir Panthro which stood near the New Thundera Spaceport, the citizens of the NTC going about their daily lives, and suddenly everything seemed alien to me. Every face I saw was potentially that of a murderous monster. The knowledge that none of women I saw, absolutely none, were safe made my guts constrict into a tight ball. I knew that this copycat would take another victim before we could catch him. It made me sick to think that, but the truth was undeniable.

If Kalsa and I had anything to say about it, though, his reign of terror would end right damn quick.

The transition from the industrial trappings of the South District and the regal beauty of the Central District was startling. Neat, angular construction was replaced with buildings that looked to have sprouted up from the very ground. Bright, vivid colors replaced the flat gray we had left behind. Carved into walls, mounted atop towers, nearly anywhere it was tasteful a Thundercat insignia beamed out our proud heritage. There was no commerce here, no tourism. The seat of power on New Thundera was a testament to all we were and all we believed.

"Hot damn," Kalsa gasped as his eyes darted every which way.

"This way," I said, a surge of pride at his reaction briefly surfacing from the darkness. We walked quickly to the main, ornate gates to the Royal Gardens. Two members of the Royal Guard, their form-fitting uniforms black and red, stood before the entrance. Long spears stood at their sides, cat's head helmets showing only their stern faces. Both pairs of eyes locked onto us as we approached, each meaning to strike fear in the heart of anyone without a soft spot in their heart for the Thundercats.

"No tours of the Royal Grounds," the one on the right said, looking directly at Kalsa.

"We're not tourists," my friend said amiably. How he could be so glib and calm at a time like this was something I had never quite managed to figure out. Or duplicate.

"Nor is Lord Lion-O taking audiences today," his comrade on the left added.

"Listen," I said, matching stares with the guard in front of me. "We're here to seek an audience with Sir Bengali."

"Commander Bengali?" Right Guard asked, suspicious.

"You've heard about Kara Simm, right?" Kalsa asked.

"Of course. You have information?" Left Guard's gaze locked squarely on Kalsa.

"We might," I replied for my friend. "Please, it's imperative that we speak to Sir Bengali immediately."

"Might?" The right guard sneered. "Either you do or you don't. Which is it?"

"We might be wrong," Kalsa said urgently, "but I don't think we are. If we're right, then a lot more women are gonna end up like Kara Simm."

"Take us to Sir Bengali," I added, "Believe me, lives are on the line here!"

Left and Right looked at each other, puzzled. I found myself wondering when the recruiting standards for Royal Guards had taken such a nosedive.

"Commander Bengali is in an audience with Lord Lion-O," Right said. "I'll contact his secretary."

"Thank you," I replied. It was a start, at least. Right stepped into the portcullis which held the iron gates to the Gardens and accessed a hidden video panel. His words came as murmurs to my ears as Kalsa and I gazed about the trappings of the Central District that we could see. I felt immense pride as I stared at the statues, the architecture, of my restored homeworld. I was also glad that Kalsa got to see it as well.

"Very well," Right said as he neared our position. "I will escort you to Commander Bengali's office. You will follow me at all times. Is that understood?"

"Yes," I said, "thank you." Right said nothing as he tapped the the cat's eye wrought into the gates. They swung open noiselessly before the three of us walked in.

The three of us entered into the sunlit glade which comprised the southern quadrant of the Royal Gardens. Trees of all sorts lined the smooth path, their boughs filtering the sunlight to provide dramatic effects of light and shadow. The beauty and simplicity of such a grove inspired feelings of utter peace and tranquility. The effects were not lost on either I or Kalsa.

"Enjoy the view, Offworlder," Right said from ahead of us. "Not many of your type get to see this."

"Thanks. I will," Kalsa replied in an icy tone. He glared directly at Right's back, deliberatly ignoring the gorgeous scenery. That little comment had spoiled it for him. Racism, once our race had been exposed to it, had permeated some aspects of our culture. Racism's sting was easily felt, and even more easily returned.

The new Cat's Lair suddenly appeared from the dense foliage, the main entrance situated at its base between the twin paws. Within, everything was bathed in a warm light from sources well hidden by Sir Tygra. We ascended to the second floor of New Thundera's Cat's Lair and marched along corridors which held only doors until we reached our destination.

"In here," Right said as the door slid open.

Sir Bengali's office was a study in simplicity. A mahogany desk sat before a window that offered an incredible view of the Royal Gardens beyond. Two wooden chairs faced that desk, with a plush seat on the window side. On the walls were shelves lined with texts on Thunderian law and history. The only mark of individuality in the austere space was a beautiful portrait depicting the Thundercats on the day they left Third Earth to reclaim Thundera. A Cat's Lair and a Tower of Omens still stood there, manned by rotating shifts of Thunderians which aided the local people as needed.

Our buddy Right stood by the door and glared at Kalsa and I in turn as we gazed about Sir Bengali's office. We ignored him as well as we were able until the door opened again. Sir Bengali stepped inside, his ice-blue eyes locking on us before he dismissed Right. His uniform was white with blue shoulderboards and boots. The Thundercat insignia rested proudly on his chest at the junction of the two straps which held the epaulets in place. At his hip was his trademark hammer, with a larger hammmer across his back.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that the two of you came forward," Sir Bengali said in his gravelly voice before shaking hands with us. He rounded his desk and indicated for us to take a seat before lowering into his own chair. "I am surprised, though. I never would have thought someone would volunteer so quickly."

"Thank you, Sir Bengali," I said as we took our own seats. Kalsa replied likewise.

"But, I'm curious. Why insist on coming directly to me? I have plenty of deputies who would have gladly taken your report."

"Sir," Kalsa began, "What we have to say needed to get to the top of the chain as fast as possible."

"Well, here you are." Sir Bengali spread his arms as wide as his smile.

"Kara Simm won't be the only victim," I said. Sir Bengali's eyes widened in stunned surprise. "If we don't act now, more young women are going to be found in exactly the same way."

"What evidence do you have?" The smile was gone in an instant, his eyes suddenly boring into me.

"Sir, a string of murders exactly like this took place on the planet Thardus III five years ago," Kalsa explained. "We believe that this killer is copying the style of the serial murderer who had been called the Thief of Hearts."

"Well, that is certainly disturbing," Sir Bengali said at length. "But I really have no time for conjecture..."

"This isn't conjecture!" I shouted. "Sir Bengali, when Old Thundera was destroyed, I was on the first convoy off-world. The refugees on those ships ended up on Thardus III."

"So, you saw these killings yourself?" The suspicion in his voice was almost a physical presence.

"Sir, Kayzin and I were homicide detectives on Thardus III," Kalsa explained. "The two of us investigated those murders. We tracked him down, we arrested him. Kara Simm's body was found in conditions much like the victims on Thardus III."

"Is that so?" From the tone in Sir Bengali's voice, I just knew we were losing him.

"Sir Bengali, please." I couldn't give up. I had to make sure he believed us. "Contact the police force in Thardus III's capital city, Thardus Prime. They will confirm everything we have told you."

"We're practically begging, here!" Kalsa exclaimed. "This killer will claim another victim inside another week. Then another. He won't stop until he's fucking caught! Don't you get that!"

"Kalsa!" I hissed. Sir Bengali gaped at him for several seconds, clearly unused to being cursed at. "Sir Bengali, please. The Royal Guard has never faced a killer like this." At that moment, he pressed a button hidden beneath the lip of his desk. Right returned to the chamber.

"I will contact the authorities on Thardus III," he said. "Pending confirmation of your story, you shall remain within Cat's Lair."

"You're... ARRESTING us?!" Kalsa shouted. I placed a hand on his upper arm in warning.

"No charges are being filed against you." I could practically hear the unspoken "yet" in the air. "Theios, take them to the guest chambers on Level Five."

"Sir!" the now-named guard barked. Left with no choice, Kalsa and I exited Sir Bengali's office with Theios looming behind us.

"If that went according to any plan," Kalsa growled, "It sure as FUCK wasn't ours!"

"Calm down," I admonished. "Theios is just outside that door."

"Charming fella," Kalsa said with a shake of his head. "Almost makes me wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry him."

"I hear you." I couldn't help but laugh. "Far as holding cells go, this is the most comfy one I've ever seen."

A plush bed for two sat in the center of the modest chamber. On the wall opposite the door was a desk and chair setup. Another door to the right led to a well-appointed bathroom. The single window allowed the mid-day sun to shine across the sleeping space.

"Yeah. A lot less crowded, too." Kalsa sprawled out onto the bed with a frustrated groan. "How much do you wanna bet that Bengali guy thinks we killed Kara Simm?"

"Sucker bet," I replied as I took a seat in the chair at the desk. "At the very least, he thinks we're a couple of wackos."

"We're not. The real wacko is out there somewhere."

"I know." The hours passed, and my dread grew unabated. He was out there, likely scouting another victim. He might have even selected her, was stalking her even now to learn her movements, her patterns, deciding the best moment to strike. I forced myself off of that train of speculation. I couldn't have my mind chasing its tail. I knew how dangerous that could be. Finally, with the sun hanging lower in the sky, the door opened.

Kalsa and I rose as Sir Bengali walked into the room. The two of us shot each other a knowing glance when we saw the horror in the commander's eyes.

"I have all the files from the Thief of Hearts murders," he said, raising a small data pad. "Come. You two have an audience with Lord Lion-O."

I hadn't expected that. As Kalsa and I followed Sir Bengali through the winding corridors of Cat's Lair, I felt myself becoming more and more nervous. An audience with the king? Lord Lion-O himself? It would have been a tremendous honor if not for the circumstances.

The throne chamber wasn't what one could call opulate. Ornate, sure, but it didn't go farther than that. The space was enormous, pillars running from floor to ceiling that bore carvings of Thundercats and other Thunderian heroes and philosophers from generations past. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows and splashed colors on the floor around us. The long red carpet stretched from the entrance to a raised platform on which the seat of power rested. The throne itself was forged of precious metals and cushioned with soft velvet. An image of the Eye of Thundera rested at the top of the throne's back just above the red mane of Lord Lion-O. Another throne, a twin to the first, sat empty to the left. Queen Cheetara was not present.

On reaching the throne, I immediately dropped to one knee and bowed my head. Kalsa, figuring it to be a safe bet, did likewise.

"I have brought them as bidden, Majesty."

"Excellent, thank you," Lord Lion-O said. "Rise, the both of you."

I looked up at the king of all New Thundera. He wore a simple blue tunic with a red cloak that fell against his shoulders. Our king was not too big on fashion, that much was certain.

"Kayzin," he said, nodding to me.

"M'lord."

"Kalsa Morgan," he nodded to my friend.

"Um, hi, er... Your Majesty."

"There's no need for you to be nervous," Lord Lion-O said. He raised the black data pad which Sir Bengali had given him while we were kneeling. "I must thank you for bringing this to my attention, horrid as it is."

"I serve Thundera," I replied. Kalsa remained silent, still a little overawed at meeting the most powerful man on the planet.

"Never in all my years have I heard of such a monster," Lord Lion-O said in disgust. "Kayzin, can you tell me when this murderer will select another victim?"

"I don't know for certain," I replied. "For all I know, he may have already. Have there been any reports of missing women recently?"

"I have received none," Sir Bengali replied.

"Then if he has," Kalsa said, coming back to himself, "He hasn't decided on how to kidnap her."

"Poor Kara Simm had been missing for three days when she was found," Sir Bengali said. "It shouldn't have taken so long to discover a mutilated body."

"All due respect," I said, "she had only been recently killed."

"Pardon me?" Lord Lion-O asked, his eyes wide. I steeled myself for what Kalsa and I would have to tell him. Kalsa, bless him, went first.

"Your Highness," he began, "The original Thief of Hearts didn't immediately murder his victims. He would repeatedly rape and torture them beforehand."

"Jaga's Beard!" I heard Sir Bengali gasp in shock.

"For three days?" Lord Lion-O asked, horrified.

"Yes, M'lord," I said in response. "His last act of torture would be to remove the victim's heart. They were still alive when he began." The silence in the throne room was palpable as the terrible facts settled in.


	3. First Victim

- Text Size +

Stolen Hearts Part Two

"By Jaga," Lion-O breathed. The horror and rage in his eyes were palpable. I knew that feeling all too well. "Why... HOW could anyone do such things?"

"I don't know," Kalsa replied. "On Thardus III, we had psychologists working on that round the clock."

"The evidence is clear," I said, picking up on his thread. "This monster is copying what the Thief of Hearts did."

"Why here?" Sir Bengali asked. "Thardus III is light years away!"

"I think I may know," I said, cringing as it came to me.

"Don't keep us in suspense," Lord Lion-O said gravely.

"On Thardus III," Kalsa said, his eyes wide with horrid revelation, "the victims, save the first two, were all Thunderian."

"Damn..." Lion-O's whispered curse summed it all up.

"What kind of sick bastard are we dealing with?" Sir Bengali said in disbelief.

"One who enjoys seeing women, Thunderian women, totally at his mercy," I said. "And on New Thundera, he has a planet-sized playground."

"You are familiar with the patterns of the killer," Lion-O said. "Are you certain this is not the same one?"

"M'lord, it isn't. It absolutely can't be him."

"Why?" Sir Bengali asked.

"Did you read the files?" I asked, incredulous.

"I skimmed through the highlights," Sir Bengali replied.

"If you had read them," I said, my anger growing, "Then you would know that Kalsa and I tracked him down and arrested him."

"Has he been released?" Lord Lion-O asked.

"No," Kalsa replied. "The Parliament tried him, a jury found him guilty, and the Parliament executed him."

"One year and twenty victims..."

"Stop RIGHT there, Bengali," Kalsa roared. "You weren't there. You don't know the legal codes on Thardus III, and YOU didn't have to catch this fucktard yourself!"

"KALSA!"

Everyone fell silent at Lord Lion-O's shout. He paused for a moment before continuing.

"Upon reveiwing all the evidence," Lord Lion-O said, "I find that I must believe these two men. On New Thundera, a murderer is stalking young women."

"I agree," Sir Bengali said. "How shall we pursue him?"

"My decision in thus," Lord Lion-O said. "Bengali, keep the Royal Guard on full alert. Report any cases of missing women to me at once. Kayzin," Lord Lion-O said.

"M'lord?"

"I do not wish to start a panic by having the Royal Guard beating down every door. Since you are familiar with these crimes, I wish for you to head up the investigation. Discreetly."

"As you wish," I said, simultaneously relieved and dismayed.

"Kalsa Morgan," Lord Lion-O continued, "You are not a citizen of New Thundera, and therefore not one of my subjects..."

"I'll help as well," Kalsa said. "Even if this is a... doppleganger, let's say, I still want to put him away."

"Very good," Lord Lion-O replied, obviously pleased. "Any resources you require will be provided. No questions asked."

"Has an autopsy on the victim been performed?" I asked, already slipping into detective-speak.

"Not yet," Sir Bengali replied. "You wish to be present?"

"We have to," I said back. "This new killer will follow the methods of the Thief of Hearts as well as he can, but he won't be able to do it perfectly."

"On Thardus III," Kalsa said, taking up the topic, "We kept certain details of the murders out of the media. That way, if someone contacted us claiming to be the Thief, we'd have some way of ascertaining that it was truly him."

"So," Lord Lion-O interjected, "this killer will use only the methods he knows. How will that help?"

"This mutt will likely add a thing or two to how he tortures and murders his victims. Those may give us clues as to what he may use, and therefore where he gets his supplies."

"Your highness," Kalsa said, "I know you don't want to hear this - I don't even want to say it - but this mutt will take another victim before we can catch him. Tracking down a serial means studying his patterns, getting in his head."

"Unless one is extremely lucky," I added when I saw the look on Lord Lion-O's face, "one never catches these killers with the first victim. His eccentricities will only become apparent with more kills. That's how these bastards work."

"Very well," Lord Lion-O said after a contemplated pause. "Bengali, escort these gentlemen to the Royal Medical Center. Miss Simm's body is there, correct?"

"Yes, Highness."

"Arrange a liason for Kayzin and Kalsa. I don't want any of this getting out unless absolutely necessary."

"At once."

To us, Lord Lion-O said in dismissal, "Good luck."

"Thanks. We're gonna need it."

The New Thundera Royal Medical Center was actually composed of five separate facilities, one in each district. The Central District Medical Center, to which Lord Lion-O had referred, held also New Thundera's medical school within its campus. Lady Pumyra, a Healer back on Old Thundera and on Third Earth, chaired the med school as its dean.

Kalsa and I walked along the sterile white corridors of the complex, destined for the morgue situated in the first basement level. The scent of strong cleansing chemicals and disinfectants stung with each breath I took, calling back even more black memories from Thardus III. Trying not to recall those days before it was time, I found my attention focused on the woman who stood by the elevator banks.

Her one-piece leotard hugged her lithe frame like a second skin. One half of it stretched light pink from left shoulder to right foot, which exposed a heel and her toes. The opposite half mirrored it in an equally light shade of purple. A loose gold belt dangled across her hips, the buckle bearing the Thundercat insignia identical to the one between her full, firm breasts. Her lovely crimson hair was swept upward to a curling tip, a shock of midnight black through its center.

Obviously, this was our liason to the Nobility.

"Kayzin? Kalsa Morgan?" she asked, her bright eyes locking in mine and his in turn.

"Here."

"That's us."

"My name is Wilykit." She smiled then, and I felt my pulse quicken a little. "But, you can call me Kit, if you prefer." I had never before seen such a lovely young woman.

"A pleasure, Kit," I replied, lightly taking her hand. Kalsa did likewise as the door to the elevator opened.

"As I'm sure you've guessed, I'll be your liason to Sir Bengali and Lord Lion-O, respectively," she said as we turned to face the closing doors. Her leotard, I saw at once, left her well-toned back exposed, a loop of fabric around her neck keeping the top half of her outfit upright. Kalsa and I exchanged a quick, appreciative look before she spoke again. "I'll be with the two of you during this investigation. Everything you discover, I'll be in the loop on."

"We understand," Kalsa said. I didn't quite trust myself to speak just yet.

"I've reserved an unoccupied apartment in the Central District for our use. Once we're done here, we'll head to your apartment in the South District for your clothes and any personal belongings you'll need."

"Yes," I said, trusting my voice with that one word. Her words carried a clear meaning; Lord Lion-O wanted us close at hand if a face-to-face meeting was needed.

"So," Kalsa said evenly, "You're with the Royal Guard as well?"

"Yes. I manage the Investigation Division of the Guard."

I was glad of that. She had experience with the details of police work. The elevator stopped with a slight tremble before the doors opened onto a brightly lit hallway.

"We've never encountered a... what was the term you used?"

"Serial killer," I answered. She nodded.

"Yes. A serial killer before," Kit finished. "You're certain there will be more victims?"

"Completely. Once we get settled into the Central District, we'll tell you anything you want to know about them."

"And this Thief of Hearts is the only one you had to deal with?"

"The only one Kayzin and I had to hunt down, but far from the only one on Thardus III." Kit's raised eyebrow was the only response she had time to give as we came to the swinging double doors.

"You ready?" I asked him.

"As I'll ever be. Let's get this over with."

An autopsy room. Jaga, I never thought I'd have to enter one again. Closed shutters lined the far wall of the frigid chamber, shelves of research equipment and computers lining the others. In the center of the tiled floor, just above a recessed drain, lay a flat steel table. Resting on top was a form concealed by a plain sheet.

Lady Pumyra herself was standing next to it. Of all the circumstances in which I could find myself encountering so much of the Nobility, I would never, ever, have imagined anything like this. The Lady herself wore green surgical scrubs, her face a blank mask I'd seen countless times in places like this. Introductions were made, mostly for Kalsa's benefit, and gloves were distributed.

"Here," he said. I accepted the small jar of menthol while he smeared a thin layer over his upper lip. I followed suit, then offering it to Kit. She accepted with a puzzled look.

"Trust me," I said. With a small shrug, she applied the menthol. Lady Pumyra took the jar last.

"One question?" Kalsa asked before Lady Pumyra could remove the sheet.

"Yes?"

"Don't you have a pathologist to do this? I mean, no disrespect, but aren't you the one in charge here?"

"Lord Lion-O wants all this to be kept close," Lady Pumyra replied. "Besides, I'm the chief administrator. People don't often question my calls."

"Got it."

Without preamble, Lady Pumyra removed the sheet which covered the corpse of Kara Simm.

"Jaga's cape!" I heard Kit gasp in horror. I felt like doing much the same.

"Game face," I whispered to Kalsa.

"I know."

I avoided looking at the chest. That would come soon enough. Thankfully, Lady Pumyra began with the other wounds.

"Autopsy of Kara Simm," she said for the benefit of the recording devices being used. "Body was discovered at five AM Thunderian Standard Time. From onset of rigor, time of death is estimated between midnight and two AM." The dryness of her prose was the only indicator of her rage. Kalsa and I stepped closer, with Kit following hesitantly. I glanced over and saw sheer disbelief on her slightly green face. The menthol helped some, but even freshly dead corpses gave off foul odors as the decomposing cells generated gas. One of the pathologists on Thardus III had the macabre habit of calling that the Last Great Fart.

"Ligature marks evident on the wrists, upper arms, torso, legs, and ankles," Lady Pumyra said. On first glance, I already knew. He had kept her tied up the entire time. "Bruising around the corners of the mouth indicates that the victim was also kept gagged." Brutally, I thought with detachment. This was not a time or place for emotions.

"Lacerations present on various places of the body," she continued. "They appear to have been inflicted with a thin, sharp object. Thoughts?" She looked at us.

"The original killer used a flensing knife," Kalsa explained. "Thin blade, extremely sharp."

"Often used to scale fish," I added. "He had several. You can get them at any place that sells fishing tackle." I heard Kit swallow with a slight click. I didn't turn to look. I didn't need to.

"Bruising is apparent on the abdomen, upper chest, and face. Severe welts also in evidence. The wounds are not defensive-classical." Medical prose for he beat and whipped her. Like she was just some object. I could already feel tonight's nightmare coming on. Lady Pumyra moved to the lower half of the body, and I braced myself.

"Severe bruising and lacerations noted on the genital area." She peered into the open junction of her legs, thankfully hiding them from my sight. "Tearing evident in the vaginal and rectal cavities. Victim had also been raped several times."

"Bastard," Kalsa hissed. I agreed wholeheartedly. Kit's eyes had gone wide in horror, her color a deeper green than before. This was her first autopsy, I realized.

"Need a minute?" I asked her. She shook her head in the negative.

"Rape kit," Lady Pumyra said, "finds no evidence of semen in either cavity. Blood samples have been collected and will be sent to DNA for typing."

"The blood's hers," I said. "The first killer always wore a condom."

"No fibers or foreign hair found in the victim's pubic hair. Did the original killer shave himself?"

"All over," Kalsa said. "He even combed every inch of each victim's hair." Which, I noticed with rising alarm, was the case here.

"Kalsa," I said, pointing at the mane of black-striped hair.

"Yeah," he replied as the color drained from his face.

"Evidence of electrical burns to the breasts, accompanied by..."

"Small puntcure wounds," I finished for her, mortified. Oh, no, oh, no...

"Yes," Lady Pumyra said as I felt the world threaten to come unglued.

"This is impossible," I said. "Those wounds shouldn't be there."

"Beg pardon?" Lady Pumyra asked, confused.

"She shouldn't be there," Kit whispered.

"As we explained to Lord Lion-O," Kalsa answered, "We kept certain details of what the killer would do to his victims, as a way of being certain that anyone contacting us claiming to be the Thief of Hearts was genuine. The burns," he indicated the breasts, "the combed hair, and the lack of foreign hairs were all things we did not let slip to the media."

"So, you're saying that there is no way the killer could possibly have known about these injuries?"

"No way that either of us can think of," I told her.

"I see," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. Even professionalism could carry you only so far. "Severe trauma to the chest area. Flesh is cauterized along the circumference of the wound. Laser scalpel?"

"That's what the first killer used," I replied.

"Evidence of major blood vessels severed by a sharp surgical instrument. Cause of death is suspected to be near-exsanguination by severing of the aorta."

"...uklp..."

"Kit, you may wish to step outside," Lady Pumyra said softly.

"'M fine," she managed in a thick voice.

"Rotating the body," she said. Lady Pumyra grasped the shoulders while I handled the feet. The body rolled over with no resistance. Thankfully, no Last Great Fart occurred.

"Damn it all," Kalsa said as we beheld the carnage. All across the back, cut after cut lined the surface from shoulder to shoulder. Twenty sets of them.

Twenty names.

"All of them," I blurted in shock. "These are the names of the first twenty victims on Thardus III." And, across the small of the back:

"YOU DID NOT CATCH ME THEN. YOU WILL NOT CATCH ME NOW."

"'Scuse me," Kit managed before charging off to the nearest lavatory. I watched in sympathy as she changed course and bolted into the doorway and began to loudly retch. I couldn't blame her.

"You did not catch me then. You will not catch me now," Lady Pumyra said as we stood in the narrow space. "A warning, maybe?"

"Some half-assed attempt to scare us is more like it," I said, uncaring about using coarse language in front of a Thundercat. "We caught the real killer on Thardus III. No question."

"But how did this guy know?" Kalsa asked, bewildered. "We kept those details like our balls. There's no way he could have found out."

"Obviously, Mister Morgan, he did," Lady Pumyra said, her voice weary.

"When the Thief of Hearts was convicted, everyone involved in the case destroyed their records to prevent any other aspiring sicko from using them. The main archive in Thardus Prime has the master copies, and I don't see anyone stealing a case file from there."

"We'll get Bengali to ask them to check the records," Kalsa said. "Maybe someone did manage to hack into the archive."

"Good idea." And maybe a Snarf can manage to outrun a Cheetah, I didn't say. "I'll catch up in a second," I said as Kalsa and Lady Pumyra started toward the elevator banks. I leaned against the cold concrete wall next to the women's lavatory as the echoes of Kit spitting and coughing reached me. Then came the sound of a faucet running and the splashing of water as Kit washed her face. After a minute or so she emerged. The green tint was gone, but her face looked haggard and worn.

"You did good for your first autopsy," I said soothingly and with a gentle smile.

"That obvious, huh?" She asked, her lips twitching into something like a grin.

"Yeah." We fell in step together as we took the walk Lady Pumyra and Kalsa had taken earlier. "If it's any consolation, I booted just as hard after my first one. They're always the worst." Kit remained silent, clearly uninterested in small talk.

"How could you be so calm?" She asked as I pressed the button to open the doors.

"You did a good job of keeping cool, yourself." The doors slid shut and I pressed the up button.

"That's not what I mean. It was like the two of you... like she was just an object. Like what happened to her didn't matter to you."

I bit down on my rising temper. She didn't know what it was like.

"Kit," I said, pausing the elevator to make sure I had time to make my point. "Kara Simm was not in that room with us. A body IS an object when there's no one inside to give it life."

"Did you even think about how much..."

"No, I didn't," I said, anticipating her question. "You've never handled an investigation like this. The things these monsters do, it's beyond horrible."

"I see that," her tone was flat, emotionless.

"Kit, keep this well in mind. If you let a case like this get to you, let it get under your skin, you'll lose your objectivity. Lose that, you lose your perspective. From there, it's just a short jump to losing your mind." Kit didn't speak as we stared into each other's eyes. Finally:

"Twenty women?"

"That's how many died on Thardus III. If I can, Kara Simm will be the only one on New Thundera. But, this impostor will take another victim. Catching a serial is difficult at best. Don't let personal feelings for the victims get in the way of your judgment. You do that, this son of a bitch wins." Again, we stared into each other's eyes. I didn't blink, didn't look away. With a sigh, Kit turned her head and broke the contact.

"I won't let it get to me," she said. The strength in her voice impressed me. I knew right then that she wouldn't let it. "Daylight's wasting, so let's go!"

"Right." I unpaused the elevator, and mostly succeeded in keeping my eyes off of her lovely posterior.

The moon had risen by the time Kit, Kalsa, and myself arrived at our new residence in the Central District. She opened the door and stepped through first, with me behind her and Kalsa bringing up the rear. Each of us had one suitcase, being light travelers.

When Kit hit the lights, my eyes nearly burst from my head. The foyer was easily big enough to hold my whole apartment. Each piece of furniture looked brand new, and more than my annual salary could comfortably handle. The deep pile carpet cushioned my feet, a wine color that complimented the cream texture of the walls. From the look of the one room, it had my place beat all hollow.

"There's a bedroom with bath for each of us," Kit said as we gawked around the spacious room. "The kitchen's over there," she pointed to our right, "and the dining room's next to it. Our food provisions are fully stocked, by the way."

"Isn't this a bit much?" I asked weakly.

"You can't be complaining," Kalsa groaned as he rolled his eyes upward.

"I'm not, it's..."

"These are standard VIP lodgings for visiting dignitaries," Kit explained.

"Three bedrooms, you mean you're staying here, too?" Kalsa asked.

"Well, of course!" Kit replied, a little indignant. "I AM only your liason to Lord Lion-O, after all."

"Right, right. Sorry!" he said, hands raised in supplication. "It's just that today's been..."

"No problem," she said back. "Are either of you handy in a kitchen?"

"He is. You don't want me anywhere near one."

"He's right," I said to her questioning look. "It always ends in chaos."

"I... see." Kit replied at length. "It's late, so get settled in. we'll start at first light."

Sleep didn't come easily that night. It hadn't for years, and still does not.

END PART TWO


	4. Suppositions

STOLEN HEARTS PART THREE

The sun was barely visible when I saw Kalsa stumble into the kitchen. I couldn't help but grin at his bleary expression while he made a valiant attempt at finding the coffee maker.

"Little to the left, Needle Ears," I taunted. As with his use of Thunder Cop, I was the only person who could ever say that to him. Kalsa responded by way of a short grunt before finding a mug from the cabinet above the counter.

"Needle Ears?" Kit asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, it's just like it sounds," I said while Kalsa sipped at the steaming joe. "No different than him calling me Thunder Cop."

Kit nearly choked on her coffee. "Thunder... COP?!"

"I'm Thunderian, I was a cop, so... Thunder Cop." Suddenly, I found myself thinking that there were now two people who could call me that and get away with it.

"Rinzians all have pointy ears, so my race got called Needle Ears," Kalsa explained.

"Regained the art of speech, have we?" I teased.

"If there weren't a lady present, that would call for the one-finger salute."

"Wait a second, here," Kit said, bewildered. "You two call each other racial slurs, make rude gestures to one another, and you call yourselves FRIENDS?!"

"Between us, at least, they're not insulting," Kalsa said.

"You two," Kit said, "are completely strange."

"Thank you," we replied in unison.

Breakfast consumed, the three of us retired to the foyer. I ended up with the sofa all to myself, with Kalsa in the overstuffed chair to my right and Kit to my left. On the low table before me rested a computer terminal and on the wall beyond some kind soul had provided a large dry-erase board complete with markers. Traditional police equipment.

"So," Kit said as she crossed her legs, "what do we know?"

"About this serial, not very damn much."

"Since we know jack about this new psycho, let's review what we know about the original."

"Because the killer is aping what the Thief of Hears did," Kit said, "we can look at the original and get the drop on him."

"It won't be that easy," I said as I rose from the couch and crossed to the board. "One thing we've learned from the autopsy," I saw Kit's face pale a little, "Is that he's gotten his hands on some information that no one should've. Question is, how?"

"He couldn't have gotten it from Central Archives," Kalsa said at once. "Files like that have airtight protection."

"Bengali got them without a fuss," Kit offered, "why couldn't the killer?"

"Sir Bengali made a legitimate request to the Thardian Parliament," I explained. "Plus, he didn't actually retrieve the data."

"Y'see," Kalsa continued, "when anyone logs into the Central Archives, the server logs their ID and access time. Since the data on the murders was restricted, one would need special access to get it. You log into that database, someone's watching you in real time."

"On my data pad," I said as I checked the screen on the black device, "I see that no one had accessed the data since storage until yesterday."

"Okay," Kit said, "so that's out. Is there another way the killer could have gotten it?"

"The second that asshole was convicted, all of our personal records from detectives to pathologists were siezed. Once recorded in Central Archives, they were destroyed. And," Kalsa said, guessing her next question, "nobody made extra copies. Punishments for that were... strict."

"And hacking is out as well," I said. "The software protections on Central Archives are impenetrable." Silence hung in the cheerfully lit foyer for several moments. Finally, Kit said,

"You did not catch me then. You will not catch me now. That's a challenge if ever I heard one."

"One aimed at us, man," Kalsa said, locking his eyes with mine.

"The fact that we were the detectives investigating the original murders was public knowledge," I said, feeling the faintest tingle of a connection. "Anyone could have researched that."

"The timing," Kalsa said. "Kit, when was Kara reported missing?"

"Monday, Galactic Standard Calendar," she replied. "Missing Persons cases require that someone be missing for twenty-four hours before an investigation can be made."

"Kalsa, you arrived on New Thundera Monday night," I said. That faint glimmer had grown slightly brighter.

"So... Kit, what time was she reported?"

"Um, let's see..." She consulted her own data pad. "10:40 AM"

"My flight arrived at eleven PM," Kalsa said. I could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. "If I'm doing the math right, that means that she was abducted nearly twenty-four hours before my arrival."

"Day one," I said, suddenly ill.

"Day two," Kalsa went on, "You and I hit the town."

"Day three, Kara is found dead." I found the problem. "Kalsa, this doesn't correlate with the exact pattern."

"Yeah," he conceeded, "She was found at five AM on my third day here, but it still fits."

"You mean, this killer knew you were coming?" Kit said, staring at Kalsa.

"It does make some sense," I allowed. "The challenge he left seemed to indicate both of us."

"But," Kit said, "it might not have."

"That's... possible," Kalsa muttered.

"I agree." I felt the connection slipping away. "For this killer to know that both of us would be here, and timing it just right, it's nearly impossible."

"Kayzin, you mean this challenge might have been only to you?" Kalsa asked.

"Possibly. Shit."

"How about a manifest of all immigrants from Thardus III to New Thundera?" Kit asked. "That might give us some clues."

"Good call," Kalsa said. "So far, the most common thread we have is that planet."

"It may help," I said reluctantly, "But nearly seven thousand Thunderians came here from Thardus III, not to mention non-Thunderians. That's five years worth of names. We'll need to set up some filters."

"Right," Kit said. "Eliminate who's too old, too young, who came here only on business... Jaga, that list is gonna be huge!"

"We should farm it out to the Royal Guard and the Population Bureau," I said. "It's an assload of data to sort through and their computers are better equipped for it."

"So, that brings us to Kara," Kit said. "Why did he choose her?"

"The original chose women who fit a pretty basic profile," Kalsa explained. "All Thunderian, all between the ages of twenty to thrity, and all roughly six feet tall."

"Oh, that's just great," Kit groused, "that's only about eighty percent of the women in this whole city!"

"When we caught the Thief of Hearts, he confessed to every crime but refused to give any details of how he chose his victims," I said. "We'll have to examine every detail of Kara's final days before her abduction. He had to have spotted her somewhere."

"We women aren't exactly shrinking violets," Kit said, "this guy has to be powerfully built."

"Not necessarily," Kalsa replied. "The Thief of Hearts was a little smaller than most of his victims."

"You're joking," Kit replied, dubious.

"This guy didn't drag her kicking and screaming," I said. "She went with him willingly."

"So, this was someone she trusted," Kit said.

"Or at least someone she thought was harmless. That's how a serial manages to get his victims. We're looking for a real boy-next-door type."

"Says here," Kalsa broke in, "that Kara worked at a bar in East District. The Pouncing Tyger. Looks to be an upscale dive bar."

"East District is home to a lot of ore processing plants and machine shops," Kit said. "According to this, The Pouncing Tyger caters more to middle and upper management types than to the average worker."

"Waitress," I mused, "Just someone trying to make a living. That's likely where he found her."

"She had a small apartment in East District too," Kalsa said, examining his own data pad. "Rent on that place was a bit more than the average waitress could manage without a roommate. Any bets on how she made ends meet?" His eyes met mine, and I felt my heart sink. I could think of a few ways, none of them legal.

"There was a case just last year," Kit said. "The Guard had been informed about a prostitution ring operating out of an apartment complex in East District. Kara's name never came up."

"But," I said with a heavy sigh, "that doesn't mean she hasn't turned a trick or two."

"We won't know that until we nose around some," Kalsa replied. "Could be she just made really good tips." I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn't put much stock in that theory.

"But, it would explain how he got her to go with him," Kit spat. It was clear that the thought of a woman selling her body disgusted her. I felt the same.

"Kit, have any funeral arrangements been made?"

"Kara's body will be released to her family later today. Beyond that, I don't know."

"Let's find out. We really should be there."

"That's generous of you, Kayzin, but why?"

"Some killers will attend the funerals of their victims," Kalsa elaborated. "They thrive on the grief, the knowledge that they can do it again and again."

"I'll have Baz find out for us."

"Who?"

"Baz," Kit explained. "He's my assistant. Baz'll be running my department while I'm on assignment with you."

"Okay. So far, we have two leads to run down. The Pouncing Tyger and Kara's parents. Says here no formal interview's been done yet."

"I'll take the parents," Kit said. "that leaves the Pouncing Tyger to you two. Kayzin,"

"Yes?"

"How long did the Thief of Hearts wait until he took another victim?"

"The first two victims were rehearsals, and they were a month apart. Once he began targeting Thunderians, the intervals shrank to about a week near the end."

"This new killer likely won't let the grass grow under his feet," Kalsa said. "We'd better get a move on."

As I've written before, I do not wish to over-dramatize these events. I do not seek to make myself more heroic, more daring, or more bold. I recall much of the dialogue between us for the simple fact that we were all in that tense situation together. It's possible, even inevitable, that I will mis-quote Kit or Kalsa, or any other we spoke with. I tell these events from my point of view simply because I experienced them from that perspective.

Crime on New Thundera had taken a firmer hold in our cities because of what our people had experienced when scattered abroad. Not all Thunderians are upstanding and honorable, and that was true even before our homeworld had been destroyed. Before, crimes like prostitution and racketeering had been nearly unheard of. But, when we all came back together, those lurid enterprises came along for the ride.

Prostitution, in particular, took hold in the industrial sections of New Thundera City and other metropolitan areas. The lure of fast money is a tempting one and some, male and female, would sell themselves for a night for an easy credit. Others would establish organizations which used people as little more than sexual cattle.

A victimless crime, my striped orange ass.

Kalsa and I had never worked in the Vice Squad, but we knew detectives who investigated those crimes. The stories they told us were in many ways as horrid as the crimes we dealt with.

When Kalsa and I entered the Pouncing Tyger that day, we were prepared for the worst.

"Nice place," Kalsa quipped as we climbed out of the compact two-seater that had been procured for us. "Tacky-posing-as-class at its finest."

I agreed with him. The outer facade consisted of an orange-and-black striped awning stood over the glass revolving door. The brick surface was painted a garish red with potted shrubs lined up like diminutive soldiers. The neon sign, dormant in the daylight hours, depicted a four-legged beast with unmistakeable stripes leaping at nothing in particular. The sign was a cheap shot on the theories that we Thunderians had evolved from primitive, four-legged animals. I don't care to speculate much on the theories of our evolution. The present is enough for me.

The interior was as cheap-showy as the exterior. Cheap wooden tables varnished to resemble more expensive lumbers dotted the over-waxed tile floor. Hanging ferns that had no business in a place of honest drinking dangled on thin wires from the ceiling. From concealed speakers came the sounds of decent Rinzian jazz, which Kalsa had introduced me to early in our friendship. The bartender, a burly Lion in a tight black tunic, stared evenly at us from behind the long bar as we approached.

"Beer-thirty already?" he quipped. "I just opened up for the lunch crowd."

"I'll have a water."

"Same here."

The barman looked at Kalsa and I warily as he left to fill two Pilsner glasses with aqua pura. He set them down on the bar in front of us with a smirk. Kalsa and I exchanged a quick glance, in which an entire conversation passed. Tact was the order of the day here, so Kalsa would take the lead. He played the Good Cop better than I could. On the reverse, though, he'd be hard pressed to find a Bad Cop better than me.

"Thank you, Mister...?"

"Lios."

"Mr. Lios, then," Kalsa said. "My name is Kalsa Morgan, this is my friend, Kayzin."

"Pleasure," Lios said with a practiced grin. "Hungry today? The Meatfruit Pot Pie is today's special."

"Hi, boss!" called a woman's voice from behind. Kalsa and I turned as the Cheetah strode through the door. From markings to spots to lithe frame, she was pureblooded all the way. Her attire - or lack thereof - consisted of a short blue halter which just restrained her breasts and left her toned stomach exposed. A pair of tight blue shorts adorned her hips, and were small enough from first glance to cover only the relevant parts. A pair of toe-less foot sleeves of that same color covered her feet up to just above the ankle.

Suddenly, the theory of tips paying the rent had more credibility.

"Neela!" Lios exclaimed. "Little early, ain'tcha?"

"Oh, I'm covering for Marlha today," Neela said as she jogged up to the bar. She glanced at the two of us before continuing. "She's still pretty broken up."

"Yeah." The sadness in his voice seemed genuine. "Anyway, get clocked in. The lunch rush's about to hit."

"On it." Neela literally bounded around the bar and through the door to the back area.

"Full of energy, that one," Lios said, meeting our stares. "What?"

"Mr. Lios," I said as we produced our Royal Guard ID badges that Kit had provided, "we're investigating the murder of Kara Simm."

"Bullshit," he spat, glaring at Kalsa. "Ain't no Off-worlders in the Guard."

"Mr. Lios, we're not actually members of the Guard," Kalsa explained in his best disarming tone. "We're what you could call 'Specialists'. We were commissioned by the Royal Guard to investigate the murder of Kara Simm."

"You specialize in murder investigations?" Lios asked dubiously.

"If you have any doubt in our authenticity, then I would be glad to contact Sir Bengali for you. I am certain that would clear up any confusion you may have."

"Nah, that won't be necessary," he said, his voice dismissive. His eyes, however, became guarded.

"All my friend and I are interested in is the last time you saw her. Saturday, was it?"

"Yeah. Saturday night. She had the late shift."

"Which was?" I asked.

"Four till one," he replied. Four PM to one AM. "Lunch breaks are on the clock," Lios added.

"Did Kara have anyone special in her life?" Kalsa asked gently. "A boyfriend, girlfriend, confidant? Anything like that?"

"She was real popular among the waitstaff," Lios replied, still guarded.

"How about with your customers," I asked. "Anyone in particular stand out? Someone staring at her..."

"Hey, did you not see Neela?" he asked, incredulous. "The girls who work here get stared at all the time."

"All part of the charm," I said, deadpan.

"Hey, I got a business to run," Lios said, still on the defensive, "And hey, sex sells."

I knew, then, that something a shade less than legal was going on in the Pouncing Tyger.

"My girls get great tips for dressing that way. Business, y'know?"

"I know," Kalsa replied smoothly. "Listen, Lios, we don't give a rat's ass about your waitresses dressing in skimpy outfits. Business is business, right? We just want information on Kara."

"I see bunches of people in here, 'specially at night," Lios explained, "There's no way I can remember all of them. Lights're low, folks're drinkin', noise can get through the roof, 'specially on a Saturday. And no, Kara never mentioned anyone givin' her the creeps."

"Okay, then," I said, my voice calm and reasonable. "So, who's Marlha?"

"Another of my waitresses," Lios replied as he began to absently polish the same glass he'd picked up when the questioning started. He was nervous, but about what I didn't know. For certain, at least. "She and Kara worked the same shifts."

"I take it they were close?" Kalsa asked after a sip of water.

"Like sisters, way I saw it," Lios replied. "Those two were damn near inseperable."

"Would you tell us where we can find Marlha?" I asked.

"Sure. Lemme write it down for ya." I heard a faint note of relief in his tone at the thought of us taking our leave. The barman scribbled an address on the back of a business card. "She'll be there all day, I think."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Lios," Kalsa said as we rose from the stools. "How much?"

"On the house. Don't charge for nothin' without a kick."

Out in the noontime sun, cars were beginning to steer into the bar's parking lot. Each one disgorged a management-type, most clad in now-traditional Thunderian clothes, who had arrived in search of a meal and a drink. Kalsa and I strode to our own modest ride, silent until we entered.

"Motherfucker was hiding something," Kalsa snarled.

"Sure as hell," I agreed. "Wonder what?"

"One thing comes to mind," he said as four more waitresses walked past our car's window. A Lioness, a Tygress, a Puma female, and one who was a cross between Cougar and Lynx clans. All four were clothed in exactly the same revealing manner as Neela.

"They look a little too happy to be hookers," I said as they vanished into the revolving door. Normally, the sight of such nubile young women would have caused a serious reaction down south. Not this time. None of them seemed overly attractive any more. Somehow, I didn't find that to be odd. "Funny how he tried to make it sound like she had no one special then turns around and said Marlha and Kara were like sisters."

"Sounds kinda special to me," Kalsa said as I fished the key out of my breast pocket. "I would't be surprised if someone inside is on the phone with her right now."

"Fuck-all we can do about that," I said as the engine hummed to life. "Gotta be skin. Narcotics haven't hit New Thundera yet."

"Hate to think about when it does," Kalsa said as I put the car in gear and merged into traffic.

The address Lios had provided was in the lower East District, within blocks of the equipment depots for the mining operations. The walls of the buildings out here were a uniform gray, no color evident anywhere except from above. The residential areas here were not designed with pleasing aesthetics in mind. Each structure was solidly constructed, all brimming with purpose. East District had originally been based entirely on heavy industry, with residences being added later as our population expanded. Newer efforts made stabs at being fresh and contemporary, but the older area in which Marlha lived had seen no such aesthetic renovations. If Thundrillium wasn't such a clean fuel, then this place would look worse by a large order of magnitude.

The door opened a crack after the third knock to reveal a bloodshot eye. Kalsa and I put on our most reassuring faces as we produced our IDs.

"My name is Kayzin," I told the sliver of face I could see. "His is Kalsa. We'd like to talk to you about Kara Simm."

"Come in," Marlha said as she fully opened the door. Her slumped posture and slow steps broadcast the deepest levels pain and sadness. The apartment itself was modestly furnished, light dim due to the drawn shades. From what I saw, tips in a place like Pouncing Tyger could pay for a place like this. At her invitation, we each took a seat in uncomfortably hard chairs in the gloomy space. Marlha, for her part, sat on a spare barstool which stood on the foyer side of the serving window of her kitchenette. In her eyes, her posture, we could both see more than sadness. We saw fear.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, both scared and resigned.

"Was there anyone in Kara's life," I began, "who was special? Someone she considered to be a..."

"No," she replied far too quickly. "Kara didn't have a boyfriend."

"Okay," Kalsa said. This was getting interesting, indeed. "So, you can't think of anyone she'd go out with?"

"No." That one word spoke eloquently to us.

"Marlha," Kalsa began, "how close was the relationship between the two of you?"

"We grew up together," she replied in a voice filled with loss and pain. "We spent every day together. We were like sisters. We didn't have anyone else."

"Pardon me?" Kalsa asked. Unlike him, I could imagine what she was talking about.

"Our parents were killed when our ship crashed on Khasis," Marlha said. "We were raised by some of the others from our convoy, but all we really had was each other."

"Okay," I told her, provisionally believing her. "Then, did she complain about anyone who hung too close around her? Someone who seemed to be constantly watching her? Anything like that?"

"No." I could see fresh tears welling in her eyes.

"Tell me, what's it like working at the Pouncing Tyger?" I asked. Maybe a change of topic could shake something loose.

"Until now, it's been great," Marlha said with a ghost of a smile. "The clothes were a bit much, and the looks from drunk management-types took some getting used to, but the atmosphere... Everyone liked each other. It wasn't so much like work, but like... kind of a family." From the bouquets of flowers and the stack of sympathy cards I spied on the far table and the sincerety in her voice, I believed it. Maybe my suspicions about Lios were wrong.

"What about Lios?" Kalsa asked. "What's he like?"

"Oh, he only acts all gruff. He's a kitten once you get to know him."

"When we talked to him," I said, "he seemed a little spooked by something."

"You mean you don't know?" Marlha asked around a sniffle.

"Kayzin and I were brought in by the Royal Guard to investigate Kara's murder," Kalsa replied. "We have experience with crimes like this. We don't know much about any criminal investigations done by the Guard before now."

"Well," she began as she drew her reddish-black legs upward to rest her chin on her knees. Panther and Lion mix? I mused before she answered. "A year ago, a sex-trade ring got busted up here in East District. The people who ran it often went to the Pouncing Tyger for highballs. They tipped great, but a lot of us didn't like the way they'd stare at us. Anyway, once the Guard broke it up, they investigated Lios every which way. Since then, he's had trouble trusting anyone from the Guard."

She was telling the truth. No one, either on Thardus III or New Thundera, was a skilled enough actress to convey the emotions Marlha was. Damn.

"Lios didn't know what they were," Marlha elaborated. "If he had, he would've been the first to bring in the Guard."

"Hey, nobody's judging him," Kalsa said soothingly. "We're not investigating him."

"Who could do something like this?" Marlha asked, trembling. "We were gonna save up, get careers, have a LIFE!" Kalsa and I remained silent as Marlha began sobbing, undoubtedly not for the first time. She cried for several minutes, the two of us placing comforting hands on her shoulders. It was all we could do.

"Marlha," Kalsa said in his gentlest tone. "You and Kara... you were more than just friends, weren't you?" For several moments, her only reply was silence. Until...

"Yes," she replied in a hoarse whisper.

"I'm so sorry," Kalsa said. "The two of you should have had a life together. You deserved to be happy."

"I know it's not much," I said, "but I promise you, we WILL catch this son of a bitch."

"I'm just... so scared... what if that's why she was murdered?" I could not mistake the terror in her words. "On... on Khasis, a love like ours... it was forbidden. If... if they thought two... of the same gender were in love... they'd... they'd..."

"You don't have to finish that," I said. "This isn't Khasis. This is New Thundera."

"Marlha," Kalsa said, taking her hands from her tear-filled eyes and enclosing them in his own, "We don't have much information, but I don't think that the love you two shared was why she was murdered."

"Then WHY?!"

"We don't know," I replied, "but what you've told us may help. Promise me," I said, kneeling down and staring into her agony-wracked eyes, "that you'll be careful."

"I... will..."

"Use public transportation," Kalsa explained, "don't go anywhere alone if you can help it. Sexual preference be damned, just be careful."

"Her killer..." Marlha managed, "he'll go for more, won't he?"

"We don't know that," I said, hating myself for the lie. I left our contact information on a business card by her side as Kalsa and I made our exit.

"Her parents didn't know anything," Kit said as we all sat in the late-afternoon light which poured through the patio window along the apartment's west wall. "Aside from the fact that she was adopted, we're still at square one."

"The Pouncing Tyger," Kalsa began, "led us to another waitress. Marlha, her name was."

"They were close?" Kit asked.

"You could say that." I elaborated briefly.

"Oh."

"This may be the start of a pattern," Kalsa mused, striding to the board which bore the beginning of an event timeline. Kara's last known whereabouts at the start, the discovery of the body at the end. Sickening as it was, I knew that line on the white board would grow before all was said and done.

"You mean this killer will only target homosexuals?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "Kalsa, that's a pretty shaky idea."

"Not really," he said in return. "We all know that this can't be the Thief of Hearts. Kara's sexual preference may in fact have something to do with why she was chosen."

"Okay, I'll give it to you." I shrugged. "But I still think that's not the case here."

"The only way we'll know for sure," Kit said with a shudder, "is when the next victim is found." The silence afterward hung in the air, a choking, noxious presence.

"Any word on the funeral" I asked. It wasn't much of a change of topic, but it was something.

"Tomorrow, ten sharp," Kit said.

On Thundera, the passing from one life to the next isn't usually a cause for somber mourning. When one has lived a full and rich life, surrounded by friends and family, death is seen as merely a transition. The deceased merely passes on to the Astral Plane and what has come before, there to await the coming of those who remain behind. Those still on this mortal coil celebrate the life once lived, trading fond memories and warm stories. Even mistakes made seem humorous in such hindsight.

As we entered the home of Kara Simm's adoptive parents, however, we saw none of that. We hadn't expected to. Kara's life, while perhaps full, was cut far too short and in a way that could only politely be described as barbaric. Instead of the buzz of conversation was a palpable aura of despair and disbelief, mixed with horror and outrage. In place of bright colors, black and muted grays were apparent. How could anyone celebrate a life ended like this?

Kalsa and I cast glances about as we moved between the gathered mourners, searching for anything out of place. Some look that wasn't quite right. The feeling of being out of place was strong that morning, as though all gathered were willing us to leave, telling us we didn't belong. I have to admit, I felt slightly ghoulish prowling Kara's funeral for clues as to why she'd been murdered.

At least we had dressed appropriately, with charcoal-colored pants and jackets over white button-down shirts and dull ties. Kalsa garnered even more glances than I did, naturally. An off-worlder, in thier eyes, really had no business there. Kalsa caught on quickly, I saw, shooting a glance at me before moving off to where Kit stood with Kara's parents.

She had selected a deep black knee-length dress, coupled with a plain white blouse and a jacket to match the dress. Sheer hoseiry adorned her legs, and a pair of dark pumps adorned her feet. Before her stood a Tygress, trembling with grief. Her husband, a humanoid with deep violet hair and golden eyes, kept a comforting arm about his wife's shoulders. In his face I saw a look I'd seen more times than I care to consider. Outwardly strong, poised, yet I knew that to be just a fragile facade.

"If you need anything..."

"Thank you, Lady WilyKit, Kara's mother said. Her father locked eyes with me, seeming for all the world stern and powerful.

"You are aiding in the investigation," he said. It was not a question.

"We are," I said back as Kalsa came to my side.

"Catch this son of a bitch," her father said simply.

"We will," Kalsa replied. With that, the three of us made our exit.

"Well, that was a dry hole," I groused as we exited into the mid-morning sun.

"We both knew it would be," Kalsa added, leading the way to our car. "Still, we had to check."

"We have an appointment with Sir Bengali," Kit said as she motioned Kalsa into the rear seat of the car. "It's best not to keep him waiting."

"What could he want?" Kalsa said as I keyed the engine into life.

"Nothing major," Kit replied. "He just wants to touch base."

"I said..." Sir Begali snarled into the handset as we entered his office. "The Royal Guard wishes you to limit broadcasts of this case to avoid a panic." We said nothing as we entered the obviously agitated Bengali's office. "I know about the Free Press Act... You also know of the Crisis Information Act... Fine. You also know of the Royal Information Act?"

Bengali listened patiently to an argument we couldn't hear.

"Okay, look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way, you cooperate with me. Hard way...Yes, Lord Lion-O would get involved, and you... Making program decisions in the backwater of Third Earth. So, what's it gonna be?" Bengali listened for a few moments before his features began to soften. "Good. Huh? What can I tell you? So what? Relax, bend over, and try to enjoy it."

"Umm... Okayyy..." Kit said dubiously.

"The media's getting more uppity by the day," Sir Bengali snarled after replacing the handset. "There was a time when people would've understood what hampering an investigation meant. To think I had to resort to a threat."

I understood that all too well. The press on Thardus III sank to any depth necessary to dig up information on the Thief of Hearts, regardless of whether or not said information was true. Most people never clued into the fact that many of the "confidential sources" were assholes hoping for fifteen minutes of fame or addicts hoping for an easy fix of their favorite mindsoap. It had gotten so out of hand that any hope of using the press as a stalking horse - either to force the Thief to make contact or a mistake - had flown out the window.

Don't get me wrong, a free press is a fine thing. Even though that means uninformed asshats can run tabloid garbage, I have the option of not reading it. New Thundera's press hadn't sank to the lows of Thardus III, but it was slowly getting there.

"Tell me you have something," Sir Bengali said, his voice haggard.

"Not much," Kit replied.

"I thought so," Sir Bengali replied with a weary sigh. "I've been going over your casework on the Thief." His ice chip eyes locked on us. "Pumyra told me of the autopsy. This killer followed the original's method to a tee."

"We don't know how he got that information," Kalsa said. "We're working on it."

"Some enterprising fool in the media put two and two together," Bengali growled. "Found out about Thardus III. I've spent the better part of the morning convincing the news organizations to keep a lid on it. But," he plucked a data pad from the surface of his desk and handed it to Kit as she approached, "that's not all."

"So soon?" she asked incredulously as Kalsa and I examined the information with her. Lenneth... no surname. Twenty-two years old, six-one, weight one-twenty... as I read on, I felt my heart sink even further into my chest. Black hair with streaks of red which hung to her shoulders, bright eyes... Defintely Wildcat.

"This bastard doesn't like to wait," Kalsa snarled. "Cocky son of a bitch."

"Says here she was reported by her fiancee... her *arranged* fiancee." I read the information myself after Kit spoke.

"Cold feet, maybe?" Kalsa asked, hopeful.

"Eloped?" Kit followed.

It was possible. Arranged marriages had long since fallen out of favor, given how few of them ever worked out. Even the ThunderCats, who were notorious throughout history for marriages of convenience to maintain purity of the bloodlines, had shelved the tradition. It certainly cut down on adultery and the scandals that came with.

"I have every available guardsman knocking on doors and forming search parties," Sir Bengali spoke up. "I hope she isn't the next victim. She fits the profile."

"That she does," I said in reply as I scrolled the data down. Lenneth resided in the East District, I found out, where she worked the reception desk for Royal Mark Financial's main branch. "Assuming she's the next victim, I'm beginning to see a pattern."

"Receptionist. Waitress. Low-paying jobs. Pretty anonymous," Kit said with dawning realization. "People you generally don't remember."

"Could be that's how he's scouting his victims," Kalsa offered. "I mean, sure they're background, but they're also the first people you see when you walk into a bar or an office complex."

"Either way," Sir Bengali said as he rose from his chair, "we can't be certain about any of this. We don't even know if she's the next victim."

"You're right," Kit said as she switched off the data pad. "We just have to find her."

And find her, we did.

Three days later.


	5. The Darker Side of Day

Stolen Hearts

The Darker Side of Day

When I last left off from this narrative, a Wildcat by the name of Lenneth had been reported missing. Kit, Kalsa, and myself returned to our investigation into the murder of Kara Simm. The case of Lenneth's disappearance was under the purview of the Royal Guard and did not concern us. There is no need to write down how we chased our tails, developing conjecture rather than new leads. With no new forensic evidence, no new witnesses, no new *anything*, we were coming no closer to identifying this pseudo-Thief of Hearts. Our frustration grew with the knowledge that what we needed would likely come from another victim.

Nothing about police work is ever easy, aside from directing traffic and writing parking citations and even those came with their own perils. Chasing a serial killer required massive reserves of patience and intestinal fortitude. Even with the Royal Guard's manpower and resources, even with the blank check Lord Lion-O had cut us to catch this monster, I couldn't change the fact that serials were never caught with the first victim.

It still didn't make the call from Sir Bengali any easier to take.

"We got the call before first light," a Sabertooth Guardsman who had identified himself as Garras said as he led us into the shadow-cast alley. Patrol cars had been parked at the entrance to the dead-end (excuse the term) passage between two office buildings whose purpose I had no interest in. "Commander Bengali ordered us to give you our full cooperation."

"Thank you," I replied as Kalsa and Kit walked to my left and right. The alley was relatively clean, very little garbage dotted the paved surface and no graffitti was evident. We weren't close enough to the outlying areas of New Thundera City to see any of that.

Surrounding an open dumpster were several members of the Royal Guard's crime scene investigators, CSIs. Each held a recording deivce, taking still shots of the dumpster and surrounding area. The shrouded form atop the heap of bagged trash drew our eyes, and we steeled ourselves to behold what lay beneath the cover.

"We've found no evidence other than... well, that," a CSI said, pointing to the covered victim. "Do you..."

"Yes," I said, accepting a pair of gloves and easing them on. After Kit and Kalsa donned pairs of their own, I grasped the corner of the slate-gray sheet and gently pulled it back.

"Jaga..." Kit gasped in abject horror. The eyes were still open, already becoming milky and clouded. Her once-lovely face was bruised, lined with fine cuts and dried blood and frozen in a rictus of the purest agony. The ruin of her torso bore numerous wounds and lesions.

Aside from the gaping hole just under her left breast.

"Didn't even wait two whole days," Kalsa breathed. "Bastard's impatient." I said nothing. Kalsa and I both knew that would work in our favor. This also gave further evidence to the obvious. This killer was not the original Thief as he'd have us believe. The real Thief never moved this quickly. I replaced the cover, knowing that we'd see her again soon enough, when I spotted the contour of the lower half. He hadn't even given her the dignity of closing her damn legs. He wanted us to see every aspect of how he had used Lenneth before disposing of her like so much detritus. Bastard.

"The one who found her's over there," Garras said, motioning to a lanky Cheetah who sat in the open driver's compartment of the large and boxy garbage truck. His head hung nearly between his knees, wide eyes staring blankly at the pavement. "I don't envy him, either."

"Sir?" As we approached, I could smell the sickly-sour aroma of fresh vomit. I couldn't fault the man.

"Yeah?" His voice was thick and heavy, as though he could blow chunks again at a moment's notice.

"We're told you found the victim," Kalsa began. Though we knew the body had once been Lenneth, it wouldn't be official until a positive ID was made.

"Y...yeah..."

"Just take a deep breath," Kit advised gently as we each took a half-step back. The day had begun badly enough without getting puked on.

"Ugh... oh, man..."

"Let's start with your name."

"Ezrix," he replied looking up at us for the first time. His face was pale beneath the usual facial markings of Cheetahs, his spotted blonde mane cut short. "A ThunderCat?!" he exclaimed on seeing the insignia between Kit's breasts.

"I'm assisting with the investigation," she replied. "My name is WilyKit. This is Kalsa Morgan and Kayzin."

"Mister Ezrix, did you notice anything out of the ordinary..."

"What, aside from a dead girl with a fucking *hole* in her chest?!" Ezrix nearly screamed, cutting Kalsa off before bowing his head and gagging.

"Did you see anyone enter or leave the alley?" I asked. "Or spot any vehicles leaving the area?"

"No," he replied at length, having managed not to coat his shoes. "I pulled in about a half hour ago, just my normal route, like. When I got to the dumpster and... and saw that... I called dispatch and they called the Guard."

"I see. Mister Ezrix, if you think of anything please don't hesitate to call us," I said, handing him out contact information.

"Hate to disappoint ya, chief, but I'm gonna do all I can *not* to think about this." Again, I couldn't fault him.

The CSIs had just bagged Lenneth's body when we walked back to the dumpster. On finding the coroner, I asked about a time of death.

"The body certainly hasn't been here long," the Puma said, "and there was no rigor. I'd have to estimate time of death to be between midnight and, say, two." The first rays of the sun were now bathing the street beyond our gloomy corridor of horrors.

"Ezrix must've just missed him," Kalsa spat in disgust. "If he'd been a few minutes earlier..."

"Fuck-all we can do about that," I said with a hand on my friend's shoulder.

"Yes." We turned to see Kit speaking into her communicator, right arm cocked to keep it firmly to her ear. "Yes. I understand. I'll tell them." The conversation apparently over, she folded the communicator shut and placed it in the holster on her belt before fixing us with a stony expression.

"Problem?" Kalsa asked.

"Commander Bengali wants us to attend the autopsy."

"We were planning to, anyway."

"Hell of a way to start the morning, that's for sure."

"Afterward, he wants us to report to him."

"I hate to break it to you," I said, "but we probably won't have very much to tell him."

"I'm aware of that."

"Hey, you okay, Kit?" Kalsa asked, puzzled.

"I'm fine. Really."

"If you want to sit the autopsy out..."

"No, Kayzin. I'm in this all the way." The look on her face, though, told me the truth. "And I won't get sick this time," she added with a forced grin.

"We'll hold you to that," Kalsa replied as we made for the car.

Fifteen minutes into the autopsy, and Kit was keeping her word.

"Blood samples collected and will be sent for Toxicology and Serology scans," Lady Pumyra said as she continued her examination of what had once been a healthy young woman. "Striations about the limbs and torso show a braided pattern. Subject had been bound with rope."

Which, again, told us nothing. Rope could be procured in any one of a hundred places just within New Thundera City alone. Rock climbing had always been a pastime of our people but even with our agility and strength, sometimes we needed a little help reaching the highest heights.

"Why ropes?" Kit asked in a surprisingly steady voice. She had applied extra menthol to her upper lip, I noticed. "I mean, wouldn't chains be better for restraining someone?"

"Rope's cheap and easy to get," Kalsa explained. "And plenty strong enough to keep someone from going anywhere. Besides, how many places on New Thundera can you walk in and buy shackles?"

"You'd be surprised," Lady Pumyra said in all seriousness.

"And the original Thief used it exclusively," I added. "Kalsa, isn't that one of the details we kept from the press?"

"I think so. I'd have to check."

"Wait a sec... Pumyra?" Kit stared at her as though she'd never seen her before.

"My husband *is* the commander of the Royal Guard. I've heard stories."

"Oh...kay..."

I merely shrugged. Different strokes for different folks, as they say.

As Lady Pumyra examined Lenneth's sex for signs of abuse, of which there were plenty, I kept as tight a reign on my anger as I could. Even on Thardus III, with all the displays of depravity and lunacy Kalsa and I'd dealt with, neither of us ever truly understood what could drive anyone to such acts of barbarism. Mutants were one thing; bloodshed and destruction was in their genes, but even they wouldn't take the time to savage someone like this. Wounds like Lady Pumyra was catalogueing were inflicted with precision, even a perverse form of care. Even Ratar-O, one of the most sadistic Mutant warlords in recent history, wouldn't do something like this.

"Bruising and tearing evident in vaginal and rectal cavities, severe bruising of the genital area. Blood found, again no semen."

I found myself recalling, then, the one tiny event which led to the downfall of the Thief of Hearts. His twentieth victim, not much different from poor Lenneth, had been his last due to semen found inside her from - of all things - a torn condom. From that, our labs had been able to generate a genetic profile, which put a face to what had long been in the public's and the media's eyes a formless terror. An identification soon followed, then the arrest, and everything else fell right into place.

"We can't wait for the rubber to break on this one," Kalsa muttered. I nodded my head in agreement.

"Say what?" Kit asked, puzzled. I explained to the two ThunderCats.

"I agree." Lady Pumyra's voice was flat, detached. "A faulty prophylactic won't come soon enough." Not that it would matter overmuch. We had only been on the threshold of genetic science when Old Thundera had exploded, and the research was only recently coming up to speed. We wouldn't be able to extrapolate a face with what technology we had, and there was no guarantee the parliament on Thardus III would allow us the aid of their labs. Even so, there was no telling how long it would take to receive the results if they did.

"It appears that the genital area, as with the previous victim, is the target of the most abuse. Our resident psychologist has some theories on that. It will be in my report to Commander Bengali. Rotating the body."

Jaga's beard...

As before, her back had been mutilated, this time with welts from what had to have been a barbed whip. Across the lower part, however, were words that siezed my heart in a fist of ice:

"THE RULES HAVE CHANGED. THE GAME BEGINS. WELCOME TO THE NEXT LEVEL."

"Oh, hell..." Kalsa's voice was a hoarse whisper.

The brilliant shaft of sunlight was a counterpoint to the bleak mood in Commander Bengali's office that morning. Each of us sat in soft chairs opposite Bengali's position behind his desk. A look at the clock hung on the wall to my left showed nine-fifteen AM. Not even noon and the day had already gone to shit.

"According to Dr. Ocellis," Sir Bengali began, staring at his data pad, "the savage injuries to the genital area are possible indicators of jealousy and envy."

"And here I thought he was just crazy," Kit snapped. "Why the hell would he be envious?"

"It's possible," Kalsa said. "There were men like that on Thardus III. Thought they were supposed to have been women."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"'Fraid not, Kit," I added. "Some of them undergo surgery to become female."

"Pumyra never told me about any such surgery," Bengali said, his disbelief palpable.

"Well, the thing is, it ain't easy to get," Kalsa explained. "I don't know the details, but I know there's a certain psych test you gotta take. The operation's irreversable, so guys who go through it have to be totally prepared. A lot don't qualify."

"Anyway," Bengali replied, quickly getting the meeting back on track. "Dr. Ocellis believes that the subject tortures his victims this way to vent his frustration over not being able to possess what he truly wants. Thoughts?"

"He's a psycho," Kit said at once.

"I don't think so," I said back.

"Oh, really?" The expression on her face was a mixture of scathing and incredulous. "Tell me, what kind of *sane* person would do something like this?!"

"Yes, do tell," Sir Bengali added. I had to remind myself that neither ThunderCat had any experience with serials. Fortunately, Kalsa went first.

"This fucker's out of his head, no question. What you have to keep in mind is that there's more than one type of lunatic."

"Huh?" both replied in unison.

"Kit called him a "psycho". Psychopaths are people who can't deal with reality, so they create their own. Their actions are in accordance with the rules they make for themselves. There's a lot of outward signs of psychosis, as I'm sure you know."

"Most serials," Kalsa said, picking up the thread again, "are what shrinks on Thardus III called sociopaths. They *can* deal with reality, and know how to blend in. They know the rules, but they just don't give a shit."

"What makes a serial so hard to catch is that they can function in ordinary society. They can pass themselves off as average, every day people. Good people, very nice and polite. They show the proper emotions for the occaision, even though they don't really feel them. The only time these bastards really feel anything is when they're with their victims."

"Great Jaga..." Bengali breathed after a span of moments.

"Who do you trust?" Kit said next, a tremor of fear in her voice. "Just like you said earlier, Kara went willingly. I bet Lenneth did, too."

"No doubt," Kalsa replied.

"If this gets out..."

"We'll probably have to let the media leak some of it," I said. "But, if they're allowed to run wild with this..."

"You don't need to finish that."

One beauty of living in a monarchy; Lord Lion-O could easily gag the media. Again, freedom of the press is a fine thing, but it can be a real double-edged sword. Kalsa and I learned that back on Thardus III.

"Okay. Given what you know about the original killer, what conclusions can you draw from this?"

"First thing, Sir Bengali, he's financially well-off. Secure, at the very least."

"How can you tell?" Kit asked.

"Both victims lived in different parts of the city," Kalsa explained. "Kara Simm in South District, Lenneth in East. I haven't been here long, but I checked a map and the two dump sites are a good distance apart."

"Which means he has personal transportaion," I said next. Most residents of the NTC worked in the same district in which they lived. Given the expenses of owning and operating a vehicle, many chose public transports. Those who had a little money to burn and didn't want to share a bus with twenty or so others would use a taxi. "Which means a pretty good career. Hence, financial stability."

"That makes sense," Kit replied. "After all, you can't really call a cab with a..." Her eyes widened in realization. "That might be it!"

"What?"

"What if the killer's a taxi driver?"

"That's... possible."

"There's something to that," Kalsa agreed.

"Yeah!" I could almost feel the excitement in her voice, like a live wire connecting us. "It'd be perfect for kidnapping his victims!"

"And transporting the bodies after," I chipped in. Maybe we were on to something. Sir Bengali, however, put paid to it.

"But what about scouting and stalking his victims?" he asked. "I know a thing or two about tailing someone. You have to stay on them until you learn their patterns. Driving a taxi, you're constantly on the move."

"He could be tailing them in his off hours," I argued, unwilling to let this potential lead slip through my fingers. "Someone who fits the profile gets in his cab, he drives her home..."

"All he has to do is remember the address and follow her when he's off duty!" Kit finished.

"Sir Bengali does have a good point, though," Kalsa chimed in. "Even if he's tailing them in his off hours, this mutt's gotta sleep sometime. And, I don't think he'd be dumb enough to use his cab to follow a victim around. Too many markings on it."

"Come on," Kit replied. "Who notices a taxi? There's lots of them."

"All taxis have locater modules installed, per royal decree," Bengali said, "so the individual companies can keep track of their vehicles. There are three taxi companies in South District, and two in East. I'll ask around, see if any have been used when off duty. I'll check North and West as well, just in case."

"If you would, Sir Bengali, find out how much their drivers pull down. If our boy's a driver, we need to know if he makes enough to afford his own ride."

A lot of detective work is speculation and theory. The only problem is that people don't fit theories very well.

"Kayzin?"

"Yeah, Kit?"

"The original Thief had a job?"

"Driver for a delivery service," I replied with a chill. "We don't know if our boy's a cab driver for sure, though."

"I read that the first killer used a defunct storage facility for his crimes," Bengali said. "I assume this one will use the same method."

"Maybe someplace within easy driving distance of the dump sites," Kit mused, her chin cupped in her hand. "Could he have more than one?"

"Most killers don't operate like that," Kalsa said. "More kill sites means more chance for us to stumble across one."

"But, if his kill site is based mainly in the East and South Districts, then how about the North and West?" I asked. "Let's face it, the NTC is the largest city on New Thundera. When he gets a woman subdued, he'll want to get her somewhere for the... ritual... as soon as possible. If he limits himself just to two districts, that'll only make it easier for us to box him in. He has to know that."

"There aren't any viable places I can think of in West or North Districts," Kit said. "There's no way he could be operating out of Central, either. Not with all the security." Naturally, I thought.

"Even if this one is limiting himself to only two districts, that still leaves a larger area to hunt than the first killer had."

"Explain?" Sir Bengali asked Kalsa.

"Most of the refugees in our convoy," I began, "resided in one area of Thardus Prime. We called it the Thunderian Quarter." Other people, of course, had a less savory name for it. "The total area was maybe a little larger than Central District."

"That small?" Kit asked. Central District, due to security concerns, was also the smallest.

"Real estate was at a premium," I replied. "Besides, it beat living on the streets."

"We can't rule out the possibility that he'll target women in North and West," Sir Bengali said with a shake of his head. "The only district we can safely rule out for a hunting ground is Central. Kit, Lenneth's father is your concern. Talk to him, find out who his daughter's friends were."

"Yes."

"I guess that leaves Royal Mark to us, then," Kalsa spoke, rising from his seat. "You drive, Kayzin."

With that said, and new ideas forming in my head, the three of us were dismissed from Sir Bengali's office.

"Kayzin!" I turned about at Kit's call just after we left the secretary's office. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure." I caught the slightly embarrassed look in her eyes, and wondered what the matter could be.

"Listen, I want to apologize. For snapping at you earlier."

"Don't worry about it. I understand."

"It's just that... all of this... It's a lot to take in, that there are people like this out there. It's not like dealing with Mutants, or Lunataks, or even Mumm-Ra. I know what to expect there."

Except that Mumm-Ra hadn't been seen in over a decade, his pyramid having been encased in a radically designed force field which converted any power used in any escape attempt to energy to strengthen the walls. Sir Panthro had really outdone himself with that one. As for Mutants and Lunataks, well, Lord Lion-O didn't establish and arm a military just for aesthetic value, that's for certain.

"It's fine, Kit," I told her, looking directly into her eyes. Rather lovely eyes, I must admit. Even as I spoke, I felt my blood begin to heat. I squelched any thoughts I had in that direction as hard as I could. To this day, I wonder if she saw anything of what I was thinking while our eyes met. "Some people, I don't know, get off on the suffering of others I guess."

"I know that," she replied. "But the thought that someone's using this city, *our* city, as a hunting ground... And the idea that it might even be another Thunderian doing all this."

For her, I think, that was the most disturbing thing of all.

"What's important now is to not let this get to us. The sooner we get this bastard off the streets, the better."

"Lady WilyKit!" we both looked right as he came jogging up to us. He was thin, wiry really, with an angular face and a mane that was of no distinguishable shade of brown. His one piece suit was blue on the left and right, with a swath of black in the middle. His face bore no markings indicative of clan. Seriously mixed blood, I thought.

"Baz! What's the rush?" She asked when he came to a skidding halt.

"I brought the list you wanted from the Population Bureau," he explained, slightly breathless, as Kit took the small pad from his outstretched hand.

"Thanks, but you didn't have to bring it to me."

"I was nearby, and I had an update for Commander Bengali on a few cases our section's running. I was going to deliver it to him, but I saw you and..."

I found myself thinking that Baz should lay off the coffee a little.

"It's fine, really," Kit replied with a small smile. "Anything I need to know about?"

"Oh, no no, nothing we need to pull you off your assignment for. By the way," Baz glanced around as though searching for an eavesdropper, "is it that killer? Can I help?"

"Don't worry yourself about it. Oh! Baz, this is Kayzin."

"Pleasure," I said, extending my hand.

"You new here?" he asked, siezing my hand and shaking it.

"You could say that. Listen, Kit, I gotta run."

"Okay. See you tonight, then."

If you're not Thunderian, hell even if you are, you might think I'm painting my people and their leaders as babes in the wood. In some ways, I suppose I am. In all our history, our main concern had always been the Mutants of Plun-Darr. No one living knows why their kind and ours have always been at eachother's throats. Truth be told, I don't rightly care, either. The fact of the matter is that we're more than able to handle invasions, armies intent on conquest, even ancient demons dedicated to wiping us out of existence. When faced with enemies like that, a society tends to band tightly together. Our old ways and traditions became sacred to us all, and our civilization became about as homogenized as it could get.

All that changed when Thundera had been destroyed.

As I've written earlier, our people were exposed to countless new things after we'd scattered. Some good, some bad. Some wonderful. Some appalling. Some of us held fast to the old ways, as I tried to. Others of us adapted, as I ended up doing. This, of course, meant new forms of evil insinuating our hearts.

When Thundera re-formed, our people returned bringing all manner of new ideas and ways of life. This is how our criminal underworld was formed. This also brought with it various neuroses, psychoses, diseases... You get the idea.

Not everything that came with reuniting was so terrible, though. New sciences and technologies made us a little less dependent on Thundrillium. Herbal remedies which had been discovered on Third Earth meant fewer chemical medicines, thence fewer side effects.

However, our return to Thundera had also brought with it a new breed of murderer. The Royal Guard at the time had no idea how to catch one of these. Kalsa and I did. I'm not trying to make us look more important in this narrative. I'm only trying to exorcise the demons that haunt me about those days.

So, draw whatever conclusions you want. They're *my* memories, after all.

The interior of Royal Mark Financial's main branch was typical of most offices the universe over. Situated on the third and fourth floors of the Lynx-O Memorial Square's main office block, it was a collection of offices surrounding a rat's maze of cubicles.

As Kalsa and I strode up to the reception desk, I noted the Leopard male manning the phones as though Lenneth had never even held a position in this place. As though she never existed. He replaced the phone in its cradle soon after we arrived at the desk.

"Hello, my name is Riil," he said with little inflection. "How may I help you genltemen today?"

"We're here to see your personnel manager. Is he in?"

"Why yes mister..."

"Kalsa Morgan," he replied, showing his Royal Guard ID. I followed suit.

"Kayzin. He should be expecting us."

"Oh!" His eyes widened in surprise. "You're here about what happened to Lenneth?"

"Yes."

"Poor thing," the receptionist said. "I'll tell him you've arrived. His office is in the back, next to the coffee maker."

"Thanks," I said as we entered the door to the offices beyond. Immediately we were in corporate hell. Calls, both video and simple voice, were the main source of the buzz of communication. I found myself strangely reminded of the preceint Kalsa and I worked while we were still detectives. At least this was quieter, and there wasn't much chance of a ruckus from beat cops having to deal with a suddenly enraged drunk who didn't much fancy a night in the tank. We garnered few stares as we trod the thin carpet to the back of the office space, the majority of the employees of Royal Mark appearing far too busy to be bothered. I wondered who, if any, of the harried workers had known Lenneth. None of them seemed to be affected by her death.

"How you wanna play this?" Kalsa asked before opening the door to the personnel office, mostly to break up the monotonous noise of a busy office.

"Same as usual," I replied. Which meant we'd start off with smiles, and show fangs if the prick behind the door started getting uncooperative.

"Hope your claws are still sharp."

"Hone 'em every day."

The personnel manager, a Tyger whose midsection and thinning hair were showing the results of office life, greeted us with handshakes as we entered his office. The space was long though narrow, filing cabinets linging one short wall with two long tables in the middle space. Chairs along the length of the tables each faced a monitor screen, likely for the purpose of new employee orientation. His desk sat in the corner farthest from the door, populated by a simple workstation and framed photographs which were turned away from us.

"Have a seat," Silabrin said as we neared his desk, indicating two plastic chairs facing his little office kingdom.

"Mr. Silabrin," I began, "I'm sorry for the loss of Lenneth."

"Yes, it's such a shame." There was sadness there, I noticed, and maybe it was even genuine. "Lenneth will be deeply missed by us all."

"Was Lenneth close to anyone here in particular?" Kalsa asked.

"Well, no, not to my knowledge. Mainly she kept to herself while on breaks. Personally, I thought she seemed a little down about something." Her arranged engagement, I thought.

"She didn't complain about anyone harrassing her?" I asked. "Here or at home, anything like that?"

"All employees at Royal Mark are encouraged to report any such situations to upper management," Silabrin said, practically by rote. "Lenneth didn't. No one else had any complaints concerning her, either." Silabrin let out a weary sigh. "Do you think her killer... might work here?"

"It's not likely," I replied, and I saw Silabrin's shoulders immediately relax. I couldn't blame him, yet I couldn't help but feel a twinge of disgust. Jaga forbid the company's reputation take a hit like that and, oh, too bad about that young woman whose life was brutally ended, but what can ya do, right? I had seen that attitude on Thardus III more than once, and seeing it here disheartened me a little.

Then again, it had been present on Old Thundera as well. I'd just been too young and naieve then to see it.

"How was she around here?"

"She was a good worker," Silabrin, unable to entirely hide a startled expression, replied. "Never late, always friendly. Lenneth was an asset to Royal Mark Financial." Kalsa's phrasing - done deliberately - had shaken something loose. Was Lenneth boffing the boss? As the interview continued, Silabrin became more and more evasive, particularly in the area of management/employee relations. The relief he felt was palpable when we rose and thanked him for his time. He was hiding something, likely unrelated to the fake Thief of Hearts, but we had to check. The toughest cases were often broken by the most trivial things. Kalsa and I remained silent as we crossed the market-value warzone of Royal Mark, both of us thinking along the same lines, and made for the elevator banks when Riil's voice stopped us.

"Guardsmen?" We paused as the receptionist jogged closer. A Puma female had taken his place at the desk. "I..." He took a furtive look about, even though the lobby was empty. "I wonder if I can have a word with you?"

"Sure," Kalsa replied. "What's up?"

"Could we... talk in the elevator?"

"You got it," I said as the doors opened and we stepped inside. To Royal Mark's credit, no chintzy elevator music polluted the space which three men made quite cramped.

"Lately," Riil began, holding my gaze and Kalsa's in turn, "Lenneth seemed down about something, even depressed some days."

"Silabrin said the same thing," Kalsa confirmed. "What about?"

"Well," Riil said, somewhat hesitant, "She always said it was personal, but I notice things around here. I've got a pretty sharp nose, too. I'd notice the look on her face each time Silabrin would call her to his office."

"Which was?" I prompted, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

"Resigned, I think is the best word. Like she didn't want to, but there was no getting around it. I knew it wasn't about her perfomance, the poor dear was like clockwork with her reports."

"You think she was being called in for some extra credit-type thing?" Kalsa asked. Riil turned away for a moment, clearly embarrassed about something. With a sudden movement, he jabbed the hold button on the elevator car. The detective instincts were kicking in high gear at this point, telling me that we were onto something maybe juicy.

"I know she was," Riil said, anger burning in his eyes. "I think he had her killed if he didn't have enough of a pair to do it himself." The pronouncement didn't startle me as much as the instant change in Riil's demeanor.

"Heavy accusation," Kalsa replied. "How about some evidence to back that up?"

"I don't have any. I did tumble onto something about the two of them a few weeks ago.

"Silabrin called her into his office, and she got that look on her face. Just for a second, she'd gotten better at hiding it, but I noticed. She was in there for only a few minutes, but when she came out she had tears in her eyes. Lenneth was composed for the most part, but I saw it."

"What then?" I asked, all business. Murder, as my partner said, was a heavy accusation to throw at someone.

"After we closed up, I followed her. She didn't go home, but to Karraya Arms. It's an apartment complex on Upper Twenty-Eighth, and Silabrin lives there."

"You make a habit of tailing co-workers off hours?" Kalsa asked with just a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"No, but something about her was bothering me. I waited outside the Karraya Arms, must have been five hours or so, and when she came out she was shaking like a leaf. Her clothes were a little mussed too. She was crying when she walked out of that place, this time she didn't hold it back."

"So, what did you do?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I pulled up, offered her a ride home since the public transports had stopped by then and I didn't see any taxis around. She got in after a few feet, and I could just feel the shame coming off her."

"Did she say anything? Like maybe what he did to her?"

"Mister..."

"Just Kalsa."

"Kalsa, she didn't have to. I saw the results. She had marks on her wrists, like something had been tied around them. Real tight, like Silabrin was into some freaky shit."

My partner's eyes met mine, and I could practically hear the DING DING DING! of red flags popping up in his mind. They were leaping like frogs on a skillet in mine.

"She did say one thing, and that answered how he got his hooks into her," Riil went on. "She said something about wishing she'd never done a video."

"Video?" I asked, connections being made.

"All she said was 'I wish I'd never done that damn video'. She didn't say a word after that."

"And, you just dropped her off at home?"

"I couldn't get another word out of her. I let her out on her block, she said she'd walk the rest of the way. The next day, it was as if it never happened. She never spoke of it to me, or anyone that I know of." Riil seemed to deflate a little, his anger having burned down. "What if I could've stopped this? I should never have left it alone."

"Riil," I said, "thank you for coming forward with this." I unpaused the elevator and continued our trip to the ground floor.

"I hope it helps," he replied, shaking his head. "I couldn't do anything for the poor dear, but I hope the two of you can. At least see that her killer pays for what he's done."

"Here," Kalsa said, handing Riil our contact information. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call."

"I will, thank you." The ride over, we exited into the main lobby and proceeded to the doors. "I was just going to lunch," Rill offered, more to Kalsa than myself. "If you two are hungry?"

"We just ate," Kalsa answered as the noonday sun warmed my skin. "Thanks anyway."

"I see. Maybe next time, then." We parted company and after a few dozen steps, Kalsa asked,

"Is he still checking me out?"

"Just finished," I said after a glance back. "You'd make a cute couple."

"You're the only man for me, sugar-claws," Kalsa replied. "I ever tell you how good a dick you suck?"

Resisting the urge to bray out loud, Kalsa and I were very secure in our manhood, I activated my communicator just as the light moment between my friend and I ended.

"WilyKit," her voice said in my ear.

"Kayzin. Any luck on your end?"

"Are we counting bad?"

"I'll take what I can get."

"The family didn't know anything, other than some nights she worked late. Did you find anything about that?"

"You could say that," I answered. "Kit, dig up as much dirt on a Tyger named Silabrin as you can. He's the personnell manager at Royal Mark Financial."

"What've you found?" The excitement in her voice was like an electric current.

"Not sure yet, but we've gotten a lead. We're headed back to the apartment now."

"I'll meet you there!" She clicked off just as we reached the red groundcar the Guard had loaned us.

Contrary to what Kalsa had told Riil, we hadn't managed to eat since the unholy hour of four in the morning and on arrival at our rather posh digs we were greeted by the smells of Meatfruit stir-fry along with grilled spearfish fillets and steamed vegetables.

I could have kissed her feet for that.

"I didn't know what you two liked, so I guessed," she said from her place on the couch, the containers of take-out spread on the table.

"WilyKit," Kalsa began, nearly drooling, "don't take this the wrong way, but will you marry me?"

"My, how forward!" she hooted, a hand over her chest and her eyes widening. "I didn't know you felt that way, sir!"

"The shortest way to a man's heart," I replied, taking a seat on the floor and helping myself to the fish, "is through his stomach. In Kalsa's case, it's the express lane." We wasted no time, tucking in with abandon. Our stomachs had been running on fumes and bad coffee for hours, and mine was threatening to leap up my esophagus and throttle my brain if the lack of solid nutrition continued.

"Silabrin," Kit said after swallowing some stir-fry, "age forty-one, personell manager for Royal Mark Financial. Lives in Karraya Arms, apartment 4-E. He emigrated to New Thundera from, get this, Thardus III some five years ago."

"Hel-lo," Kalsa said. "The plot sickens."

"No criminal record for him on New Thundera, and I've put in a request from the magistrate in Thardus Prime. Still waiting on that. Do you two remember him from Thardus?"

"No, he never popped up on our sensors," I replied, "then again, we were homicide."

"I wonder if vice picked him up?"

"Kalsa?" Kit looked at him, an eyebrow arched in curiosity.

"Seems the last victim had a liason with Silabrin," he explained. "More than one, and she wasn't too thrilled about it."

"Using his position to force himself on her," she snarled, putting down the carton of stir-fry and sipping some water from a fluted glass.

"Not quite. We had an interesting little conversation with a receptionist by the name of Riil."

"He works there?"

"Know him?"

"We went out a few times. Nice enough, but I wasn't his type. He asked me to introduce him to my brother, though."

Not really wondering where that would have led, I continued.

"Says he followed Lenneth one night to Silabrin's apartment. Some hours later, she came out looking like she'd seen better days. Seems our boy likes it rough."

"He's blackmailing her from the sound of it," Kalsa went on after finishing off the last of the spearfish. "Riil told us she said something about a video she was suddenly regretting."

"Smut," Kit spat in disgust. "Something the Reunion could have kept to itself."

"Hey," I said, catching Kalsa's attention, "You remember that guy back on Thardus we shook down while we were investigating that botched robbery?"

"Huh? Wait, you mean the jack-head who thought the old man's place he broke into had a stash of credits?"

"Yeah, he was running cameras for that assbag Kyrone."

"If you wanted naked flesh of any flavor, he was the scum to see."

"Thunderian?" Kit asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "Looking to make a fast credit by filming women..."

"Don't finish that," she said, picking up the list of eligible immigrants from Thardus. "He's on here, alright, came over three years ago. You're thinking he's set up another business venture?"

"I'd bet on it," I answered. My stomach was full, yet the new leads were threatening to sour the contents. "Address?"

"He lives in South District. He's a... get this, a taxi driver." Kit looked up at us, a gleam in her eye that shouted connection.

"Kyrone's a lot of things, but a killer he ain't," Kalsa said. "But, even if Silabrin is..."

"And Lenneth's performance isn't the only one he has..." Kit added.

"Then maybe this is how our killer is spotting his victims," I finished. "Using porn to scout them." It worked on the surface.

"I'll get Commander Bengali to check with Ocellot Cabs to get Kyrone's work schedule. If I remember right, the owner owes him one."

Ocellot Cabs, on the surface, was a bit on the shabby side. Situated between an import business and a currently vacant structure, it was a one-story building with faded gray paint on the concrete and several roll-up doors lining the wall with an employee entrance at the far right corner.

Our boy didn't start work for fully thirty minutes and, thanks to Sir Bengali, we learned that he likes to show up early for work. A real eager one, we'd been told, a credit to the company.

Somebody had been fudging his resume a little.

On Thardus III, Kyrone had discovered the allure of fast money by filming and distributing pornography. Disgusting, yes, but not technically illegal. While the vice squad kept its eye on him, he made sure his little nuggets of shit never strayed too far from the beaten path. Kyrone had also been an amateur fence, re-selling stolen goods he'd buy from various hoods and drug addicts.

Kalsa and I hadn't stumbled across him until investigating the murder of one Tavrot Kreeg, an elderly Caurian who had been spending his golden years on Thardus III after a career as a freighter captain. Word had gotten around that the former captain had amassed a sizeable amount of loot; gems, treasures and the like, and had stored it within a small hidden safe in his apartment.

If you've ever been to Thardus III, or even read up on it, then you would know that rich retirees would find better places to spend their retirement. Somewhere with beaches, or forests, either way there would be wine, women and song. The best one could hope for in Thardus Prime's urban sprawl was beer, the old lady and TV.

To Kyrone's sometime-cameraman, a Tyrallan named Olun Zwin, this did not occur. High on boostjuice (an addictive stimulant illegal on Thardus III but easily come by if one knew where to look) and low on supply, he had taken it upon himself to liberate said storied treasures in the hopes of keeping the good times rolling for the foreseeable future. He hadn't expected Kreeg to put up as much resistance as he had, and as such had beaten the man to death in a drug-induced rage. Having found nothing and with his so-called reason reasserting itself, Zwin had decided to lay low with what nicknacks he had managed to get.

Kalsa and I had no trouble identifying the perp, and his then-girlfriend had pointed us to Kyrone. Having starred in a few of the pimp's videos, she knew where he hung out. Vice had, at the time, a tail on him as part of a sting. Kyrone was small-time, but some serious players in the stolen goods markets were beginning to notice him. With their warning well in mind, we had confronted him in his "studio" and laid it down for him. Under Thardian law, if he did anything whatsoever to cover for his buddy, we'd charge him with being an accessory after the fact to Tavrot Kreeg's murder. The approach was simple; someone hooked on boostjuice would not go long without a fix. We made clear to Kyrone that if Zwin approached him with something to fence, or anyone else he knew in those circles, we would get a heads-up and in return we would be so kind as to overlook his half-assed operation. Kyrone had agreed only too happily. Three days later (a record for an addict), we got the call that Zwin was coming for some fast cash. From there, the arrest had been a piece of cake and Kyrone remained on our map.

I found myself amazed that Kyrone would revert back to his old ways on New Thundera. I drove, while Kalsa regaled Kit about our shared history with the smut-peddler. I had thought him somewhat smarter than that. Before pornography could flourish on our restored homeworld, Lord Lion-O had decreed it unlawful to distribute video files or images of sexual acts for profit. Images of plain nudity, given our cultural history for going about as nature intended, were excluded. Also, any nude or sexual images of people under the Age of Ascension, nineteen, were banned outright. The thinking, I'm told, was that if there was no profit to be made from smut, then no one would be interested in making it. With free enterprise becoming the new model for our economy, it seemed to make sense.

In large part, it was successful. However, sex sells and there are always those who look for a fast credit and those who can't resist the appeal of forbidden fruit. As such, porn became an underground business on New Thundera.

After parking, the three of us walked into the small lobby of Ocellot Cabs and were greeted by a bored-looking dispatcher behind a worn desk and the smell of machine lubricants mingled with stale sweat. The Puma male behind the counter glanced at us, Kit's ThunderCat insignia, and our raised Royal Guard badges and suddenly his day seemed filled with excitement. We made brief introductions before walking through the door behind the dispatcher and into the maintenance bays. Several taxis sat polished and waiting, others in various states of repair while a few were missing. Following the directions provided by the owner via Sir Bengali, we made for the third door on the right-hand wall and entered the locker room where drivers changed into uniforms and stored their off-hours clothing. Immediately upon entering we heard someone whistling an aimless tune who proved to be Kyrone himself. He was kneeling, lacing up his boots, unaware that we were in the room. On cue, WilyKit sauntered up to him from the front while Kalsa and I veered around a row of lockers to blindside him from behind.

"Well, hi!" we heard him say in greeting. We rounded the lockers to see Kit glaring at him.

"Yes, that's a ThunderCat insignia," she snapped, glaring daggers into him, "and just so you know, my eyes are up here."

"Wh-what c-can I do for you?" he stammered, and I knew our hunch was right.

"Kyrone!" I boomed, keeping my voice jovial.

"How's it hangin', buddy?" Kalsa said next, his voice as falsely cheery as mine.

"WHAT?!" he shouted on seeing us and, more importantly, the Royal Guard IDs we were flashing. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," Kalsa said, clapping a friendly hand on Kyrone's black-attired shoulder. "We can't check up on an old friend, see how he's doing?"

"Not when he's gotta get to work." I knew why he wanted to get away from us. "'Sides, there's no off-worlders in the Guard."

"Times change," I snarled. "And to answer your next question, it would have to be Kalsa who was first."

"By the way," Kit said, "this ThunderCat insignia and those IDs say they can talk to you whether you have to work or not."

I watched his body language; tense and guarded. He was nervous as hell. I could, as we said back on the force, smell blood in the water. Kyrone was a Wildcat by lineage, lean and rangy. His mane was black, streaked with orange. He looked at us, from Kit to Kalsa, then to me, and fell onto the bench between the two rows of lockers.

"So," Kalsa began, the more amiable of us, "tell us about yourself, Kyrone? Enjoy the job?"

"I drive a taxi eight hours a night," he retorted. "Never a dull moment, let me tell ya."

"Not like being a producer, huh?" I asked, leaning in and invading his space a little. Just enough to be intimidating.

"I... I don't wanna talk about those days," he said, not quite looking me in the eye. I've known people who could look their own mothers in the eye and lie through their teeth, but Kyrone wasn't one of them.

"Then how about these days?" Kit asked, her arms cross severely over her breasts and a look on her face that would send lesser men running.

"You accusin' me of somethin'?"

"Just compiling facts," Kit retorted, revealing the data padd she had palmed. "On our way here, we did some digging into your bank accounts."

"You came here pretty well off," Kalsa said. "Took a while to piss it all away, even with all the eating out in West District. Man," he laughed, "some of those places cost what I used to make in a week!"

"And, I note," Kit went on. I could hear her anger and disgust in her archly formal tone. "You purchased with the last of the funds you came here with two handheld image recorders and some used video editing equipment."

"Nothing illegal about making home movies." I heard the quaver in his voice, just beneath the surface. We had him, and he knew it.

"Home movies," I repeated, planting a foot on the bench next to his thigh. "Is that what people are calling your smut these days?"

"You nuts?! I'm flyin' straight!"

"Aren't we the law-abiding citizen?" I sneered, getting in his face. "I know you, Kyrone. A cabbie's pay won't even get you an appetizer in the places you like to eat, it wouldn't even get you through the door in the nightclubs. If you can turn a fast credit to live the high life, what's a little thing like the law?!" He looked at me, then, and I saw him break.

"Okay... Oh, Jaga, it wasn't supposed to blow up like this..." His shoulders began to shake, and I backed off a little. Better to let Kalsa handle this part.

"Look, man, we're here to cut you a deal. Cuz we like ya."

I ignored the incredulous look WilyKit shot him, then me. Kyrone, thankfully, missed it entirely.

"You own up about your operation, give us your buyers, answer our questions, and we'll leave here without your ass for a pair of shoes."

"I... I tried to leave all that behind me," he began. Part of being a cop, particularly a good one, was learning to emphasize a little with your perp. They all had stories, and you had to at least pretend you cared about their wrong choices and errors in judgment. "I got to New Thundera, I thought I could land a gig shooting legit. I wound up with nothin', man. Nothin'! I end up haulin' drunks an' assholes around, livin' like a nobody."

"Your point?" Kit asked sharply.

"It started off small. Some people from the old days referred some couples to me, people who wanted to spice up the bedroom a little. Like I said, nothin' illegal about home movies, dig?"

"So, you made some quick cred and circumvented the law. You piece of shit." I meant that, too, every word.

"Wasn't long, man, I found some people who wanted me to tape solo action. For profit, like. I was just the recorder, man, that's all."

"Kyrone, level," Kalsa urged.

"I started recruiting from their crews, girls who wanted to turn some quick cred on the side. Some others came to me, too. Same stories if they bothered to tell 'em. Some wanted a walk on the wild side, some needed money."

"How'd you spread?" I asked, meaning his distribution method.

"Face-to-face, no names, credit-in-hand," Kyrone replied. "Real simple, like." I nodded to Kit, who seemed to have overcome her surprise at us being willing to deal, for her data padd. I called up Kara Simm's image first.

"How many you make?" Kalsa asked.

"Twenty, twenty-five maybe."

"Was she one of the girls?" I showed him Kara's image and, to Kyrone's credit, he actually studied it.

"Nah," he replied, shaking his head. "She's that dead girl, right?"

"That's right."

"Hey hey HEY!"

"Stow it," I snapped. "If we wanted you for her murder, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"We know you're no killer," Kalsa added. "You weren't last time when you gave us Zwin."

"Yeah, yeah that's right," Kyrone said, his voice gaining some confidence.

"How about her?" I showed him Lenneth's image, and I saw the recognition in Kyrone's eyes. "Own up."

"Yeah. She came to me 'bout a month ago. Real skittish type, never done nothin' like this before. Said she needed money. I didn't ask what for."

"How much did you pay her?"

"Five hundred, standard rate. She got naked and got the sheets wet, and I can't do nothin' tamer than that. Won't sell." I saw Kit close her eyes and heard her growl low in her throat. A woman's pride, her dignity, her sense of self-worth and possibly her life. All for five hundred credits.

I still don't know how that can be worth the price, and I don't want to.


End file.
